


The Transformative Power of the Gaze

by TAFKAB



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alien Sex, Angst, Cryogenics, Enemies to Friends, Especially in the Kobayashi Maru part 3, Ethnically appropriate recast Khan, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Humor, Jealousy, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Political Intrigue, Prostitution, Qo'noS, Slow Burn, Some dialog taken from reboot movie scenes, Storms, Telepathy, Volcanoes, aos au, area 51, meteorites, unrequited and/or implied McKirk, unrequited and/or implied Spirk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-03
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2018-08-28 20:05:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 65
Words: 115,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8461204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TAFKAB/pseuds/TAFKAB
Summary: After Bones loses a bet with Jim, he has to attend a life-drawing class... as the model.  When one of the aspiring artists develops an unexpected personal interest in him, the AOS timeline is set on its ear.  Can a medical cadet and a professor stop the militarization of Starfleet?  And what in the world is up with Jim Kirk?  Looks like he's quite literally in bed with the Marcuses' military agenda....ABANDONED





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks go out to various second readers for support, suggestions, and proofreading advice! This story owes a debt of gratitude to Scarletjedi, Adenil, Onemonthonefanfic, Androgynousclintbarton, Theanishimori, and Intuitivelyfortuitous for all their time and kindness. :-)
> 
> I don't know why the Bones in this story is able to speak French, but obviously he can. Go figure....

Jim always got Bones into the worst damned situations. He ought to know better than to bet against the man, even if it was a so-called sure thing.

McCoy sighed, scowling at the four scarred bare walls of the little cubicle where he found himself undressing. A sink hung on one and a toilet sat in the corner. There was nowhere for him to leave his stuff. Not that he had a lot of stuff to leave, but it was literally all the stuff he had. 

He glared at himself in the faded scrap of mirror hanging over the dismal sink. He looked cold already, his cheeks too pink with embarrassment. ….All four of them.

He snarled at the little smock the instructor had provided, advising him to wear it until he was ready to pose. It wasn’t nearly adequate to the job, but he put it on anyway. Cosmic karma was getting revenge on him for making people wear hospital gowns, that much was sure. 

A tap at the door heralded time for class to begin, and Bones gathered up his things in his arms, opening up.

“Oh, let me take those,” the instructor, a pudgy Tellarite, fussed over his clothes and set them on the corner of her desk. “Thank you so much, Cadet McCoy. It can be difficult finding suitable models for life drawing courses, but your anatomical structure should be ideal. Very reminiscent of Greek statuary.”

“I appreciate the compliment.” Damn, but it was hard to be suave when your ass was hanging out the bottom of a too-short, flimsy cotton smock and the girl in front of you had a nose like that. Not that he was particularly prejudiced against Tellarites, but they weren’t his preferred type, either.

As she herded him toward the dais where he would stand, he took the opportunity to glance around and see what he was in for. You had your standard mix of races, various cadets, a few instructors—since it wasn’t a for-credit class, all kinds of people had turned up. Hell, there was even a damn Vulcan, if he read those ears right. Yeah, no other race in the galaxy would go for a ridiculous haircut like that. 

Bones felt his blush sink deeper. Damn it. Bad enough to be stripped naked in front of God and everybody without one of those supercilious logic machines sneering at his every blemish. At least humans had some capacity for sympathy when you had physical imperfections. Worse, it was cold as a witch’s tit in here. He was definitely experiencing issues with _shrinkage_. How the hell was he supposed to hold his head up high as an example of Terran anatomy with _shrinkage_?

He was gonna put a laxative in Jim’s dessert tonight. See if he didn’t.

Stepping up onto the dais, Bones sighed, and at the teacher’s encouraging nod, he let the smock drop. Eyes fastened on him like flies landing on raw meat. He looked up at the ceiling instead of out toward the thicket of easels.

He was supposed to strike a pose he could sustain for an hour without moving much. He decided to rest a hand on his hip and turn one leg halfway, his instep facing forward, weight resting on both feet. He kept his head tilted up so he wouldn’t have to meet any eyes.

Several people moved, jockeying for the best position-- some alighting in a place where they could get a good eyeful of his junk, others seeming to want to avoid the sight altogether.

In his peripheral vision, he could just make out the Vulcan taking up a position approximately ninety degrees to his right. McCoy carefully turned his head away from that quadrant before freezing in place to be drawn.

It was going to be a long damn hour.

*****

“So how was it?” Jim flopped down next to Bones in the cafeteria. He had an appalling selection of food on his tray: a hamburger with cheese and a heap of dill pickles and onions on top, deep fried potatoes with chili cheese sauce, chocolate cake, and a sugary drink. Bones shuddered at the sight of it all.

“One of these days your metabolism’s gonna fly south for the winter. Those uniform fat shirts won’t flatter you.” 

Jim ignored his dire prediction, as always, stuffing a handful of fries into his mouth. “How’d the life drawing class go?”

“It went,” Bones muttered. “How was your date with Gaila?”

“Pretty good. Did you know she’s rooming with Uhura?”

Bones rolled his eyes. “Well, don’t get your hopes up looking for a threesome.”

“Want to wager on it?”

 _“HELL_ no,” Bones snapped. “I’ve learned my damn lesson.”

“You still haven’t told me how--”

“There was shrinkage.” Bones accused him unreasonably, as if the temperature of the room had been Jim’s personal responsibility.

“Ouch,” Jim commented, unconcerned, and washed down the fries with a swig of his drink. 

“And a Vulcan. An honest-to-god stuck up Vulcan drew my dick, Jim.” 

“Your shrunken dick,” Jim provided helpfully.

“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t want to give him an inferiority complex,” Bones shot back with scathing sarcasm. “Who the hell knew Vulcans draw things, anyway? I figured they just went around solving differential equations all the time for shits’n’giggles.”

“So how many times does the class meet?”

“Eight damn times.” Bones scowled at his tray. “That’s a total of four poses; They rough out a sketch the first week and refine it the second week. The week after that, I do something different.”

“Then you’ve only got seven more to worry about.” 

“One of these days you’re going to wake up and find I’ve removed one of your kidneys in the middle of the night and sold it on the black market.”

“You’ll just give me a pill so I can grow a new one.”

McCoy scowled at him. Bastard was right. “I’m gonna need to give you a pill to grow some new intestines, if you keep eating like that. At least chew with your mouth shut.”

Jim just cackled at him and kept stuffing his face.

*****

After a couple of weeks, Bones got the hang of posing and being ogled. It still made him a little uncomfortable, and it left him sore and aching to stand still for so long with his arms in an unnatural position, but it didn’t seem very sexual when nobody responded other than just staring at him, frowning, trying to figure out how to translate what they saw with their eyes into strokes of charcoal on paper. 

His worst opponent was boredom. He let his eyes wander, inventing little stories about the various artists in the class. That one, he was probably henpecked, and did this for two reasons: A. to get out of the house with his spouse, and B. to get a look at some skin, since he wore a wedding ring but didn’t look like he’d been laid since at least his honeymoon. The one over there was an Artiste with a capital A and figured she was going to be rich after her first gallery showing; you could see it in the glitter-sparkle mascara she’d caked on about half a centimeter thick. 

The teacher was a rebel, too; the very fact she hadn’t ever condemned Bones or tried to complain about his poses said she was an eccentric among her own argumentative society. 

The Vulcan, well. Hell only knew why he was here. He stared down his nose at Bones with absolute flat affect apathy, spending long periods alternating the direction of his gaze between Bones and his canvas without moving his body at all. When he did actually draw, he’d go for a while in a flurry of motion, then fix Bones with his dead-eyed stare again, repeating the process until it made Bones want to crawl out of his own skin to escape. 

Nobody was gladder than McCoy when the interminable eight-session interval was ended, and he could put on his little cloth smock for the last time, then retreat into the tiny bathroom to scramble back into his clothing for once and for all.

He made his escape out the back way, hoping he’d never have to think of the whole silly business again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now included in this chapter: magnificent artwork by [Alena Lane!](http://portraitoftheoddity.tumblr.com/tagged/lena's%20art%20thing) _Warning: NSFW side view male nudity_

Of course things didn't blow over that easily.

In about three days, an announcement arrived in everybody’s email, telling them there would be a gallery showing to celebrate the students’ work. Jim of course got it and opened it and insisted Bones was going to accompany him to the show, so he could walk around looking at all the inept scrawlings of Bones in the altogether and making smug comments on them under his voice, where only Bones could hear.

McCoy got his organ removal paraphernalia ready and laid it out on his bed so he could make a point of his ability to make good his threats, then dressed in the slouchiest casual clothes he could lay hands on: an old worn-thin blue tee shirt, some ripped-up butter-soft blue jeans, his favorite shitkicker boots from the farm back in Georgia, and his good old worn leather jacket. He topped off the ensemble with some aviator shades, hoping nobody had been damn fool enough to make his face recognizable on any of their renditions.

Jim was in his element, flirting with every girl he laid eyes on, dragging Bones around the aisles and elbowing him with glee any time it turned out someone had drawn his junk-- which meant Bones’s ribs already ached, and they were only a quarter of the way through the exhibit. “I can see what you meant about the shrinkage,” Jim said, pointing at one particular work.

“Damn it, that was the fifth week. It wasn’t shrinking by then,” Bones snapped, vowing not to use anesthetic when he took that kidney. He could just duct-tape Jim’s mouth shut instead. Actually, he should’ve done it before they came. 

As they wandered, he became aware of a knot of greater activity near the back of the room where people seemed to be congregating in front of a portion of the exhibit. So far Jim was letting Bones steer them clear of it, but it was inevitable they’d make it there sooner or later and see what all the fuss was about. Bones sipped his club soda, wishing it weren’t a dry event. He started casting a cautious ear toward anybody who seemed to be coming from that direction.

“Amazing sensuality…. Intangible… _Je ne sais quois_.... Perspective…. Transformative power of the Gaze (the fucking capital letter was actually audible, a feat Bones couldn’t have duplicated if his life depended on it)…. Who would have thought…. Considering the source….”

It all sounded like a bunch of happy horseshit to him. The only word that mattered was “sensuality.” Apparently somebody had gone slap-happy and done him up like porn. Great; Jim was gonna have a field day. 

It was inevitable; they finally made the turn that landed them there, in the back of a chattering knot of amateur art critics. 

“Amazing. The fetishization of the model is so subtle it can’t be pinpointed; if you look at the other works, they ought to be all but identical, but this work isn’t. It’s a perfect example of objectification through the Gaze.” There was the goddamn capital again. Jim’s eyebrows were climbing, and he started craning his head to get a better look.

Bones already had one. There he stood, and the damn comments were right. Something he couldn’t put his finger on was different; it was just him, just fucking standing there, but…. The angle of his waist, the turn of his calf, the tiny hint of his cock poking forth beyond the jut of his hip and thigh, almost entirely effaced; the curve at the join of shoulder and neck…. Jesus _Christ._ It looked like whoever drew that must’ve wanted to _lick_ him. Bones hoped against hope it’d been the cute little blonde girl with the pixie cut who’d kept blushing whenever she almost caught his eye. 

  
Artwork by [Alena Lane](http://portraitoftheoddity.tumblr.com/tagged/lena's%20art%20thing)

“Goddammit, this was supposed to be life drawing, not Pornography 101,” he muttered, flushing bright red. 

Jim succeeded in bullying his way up to the front, Bones firmly in tow. “Holy shit,” he breathed. “Who drew these? These are _good._ ”

“These are _fiction_ , is what they are,” Bones protested, flailing a hand at the display-- piece after piece showed the same distinctly erotic overtones. The strokes of the charcoal were not particularly lavish; the artist’s style was quite minimalist, harsh and stark, but every single drawing captured a lazy, mind-melting sexuality that threatened to ignite the paper and made Bones question every move he’d ever made. “I didn’t pose like that,” Bones objected miserably. 

“Looks like somebody thought you did.” Jim reached out, lassoing the Tellarite teacher; even now Bones couldn’t remember her name. “Excuse me. Can you tell me who drew these?”

“Commander S’chn T’Gai Spock, Cadet Kirk,” she checked his adhesive ‘my name is’ label. "My best pupil!” She swelled up like she’d drawn them herself, like she could take credit for a talent that obviously predated a hasty eight-week seminar. “So glad you could come. Cadet McCoy was a marvelous model, as you can see!”

“Oh yes. I can see,” Jim purred, and Bones rolled his eyes to the heavens. 

“S’chn T’Gai--” McCoy butchered it; his throat wouldn’t make either the glottals or the weird clicks. “Spock, did you say?”

“Yes. The Commander.” She pointed to one side, and Bones found himself staring across several feet of gallery-going nitwits toward the damn fucking ebony bowl cut, perfectly pristine, over pointy ears and expressionless features currently directed toward a gushing woman who received no more apparent approval than Bones ever had himself. “Isn’t it amazing? The sensuality of the--”

“Excuse me,” Bones said, not much caring how rudely he came off, and dragged Kirk away.

“Wait! I wanna see if I can buy that one, the one where you’re lying on the table with the sheet draped over, with your hand collapsed next to you like you just finished beating off--”

“Like _hell_ you are,” Bones hissed. “Let’s get the fuck out of here before that pointy-eared asshole sees us!” 

Spock was speaking, just audible over the low buzz of the crowd, his voice well-modulated and deep but just as flat as the expression on his face. “No, I could not have done work of this caliber without reference to the particular animal magnetism of the model,” he was saying. “His innate sensuality proved particularly apt for visual expression.”

Bones wondered whether spontaneous human combustion was a possible consequence of mortified embarrassment. Maybe he could just sink through the floor and save everyone some trouble. 

“You’re not dragging me out of here that easy. I wanna talk to him!” Jim was excited, bubbling over with genuine enthusiasm, not just simple mockery. “I swear I’m gonna get that one.”

“Oh yeah? And exactly where are you gonna hang it?”

“Wherever I do, you can be sure it’ll be well-hung.” Jim twinkled at him. “I might send it home to my mom, then tell her I’m bringing you home for Thanksgiving.”

Bones punched Jim’s arm as hard as he could, despite being the one who’d have to take the bruise off later. Unfortunately, the violent motion drew Spock’s attention, and he disengaged from his coterie of admirers to approach them.

“Mr. McCoy,” he said flatly, his eyes giving no indication of warmth. “It is fortunate you were able to attend the showing. These accolades are your just reward, given your hard work during our sessions.”

“Yeah, uh, thanks.” Bones tried not to squirm. What the fuck. No way did this guy draw those. No fucking way. No fucking way in _hell._

“Hi! Jim Kirk,” Jim interrupted when McCoy didn’t say any more, being obnoxious as usual. “I’m Cadet McCoy’s roommate, sir.” At least he didn’t offer the Vulcan his hand to shake. “Pardon me for my presumption, but I was wondering if any of your works were for sale. I’d very much like to purchase the one with the sheet drape.”

Spock raised an eyebrow at him. “I had not considered that contingency.” He tilted his head. “I will have to research a fair price for the image before responding to your offer. May I have your comm code?”

McCoy tried not to groan as Kirk scribbled it on the back of a bit of cardstock and handed it over. “Are you satisfied?” McCoy growled, wildly uncomfortable with the whole situation. “Can we go?”

“Don’t think so,” Jim grinned, and when Bones looked up, he realized Spock’s little coterie had encircled them all and were looking at him. Hungrily. 

“Here is the model in question,” Spock said to the woman he had addressed earlier. “Perhaps you would care to include him in your inquiries.”

McCoy forced himself to smile and be polite as the socialites descended. Still, he couldn’t help wondering where Vulcans kept their kidneys. 

By the time it was over, Bones didn’t know when he’d been happier to see an evening end. Jim didn’t help him at all; he wound up answering more questions than he wanted anyone to know-- several of them having nothing at all to do with art, instead having a lot more to do with how someone who liked Spock’s pictures could get into McCoy’s pants. He was damned uncomfortable with being treated like a sex object, and he was quite aware the artist, Spock, had used him as an escape mechanism, deftly diverting attention away from himself. 

“God I need a fucking drink,” he snarled at Jim, who slapped him on the back fondly. 

“Let’s get back to the room and hole up for one, then.”

They made their escape after a few awkward farewells. Bones would’ve been relieved, but by the time they got back, Jim had a comm call waiting. It was from Spock, saying that as Jim was a particular friend of McCoy’s, the picture would be his free of charge and would be delivered shortly after the conclusion of the gallery show. 

Bones sank down on his bed with a fifth of Jack and a bad attitude while Jim paced around crowing and planning where he was going to hang the damn thing.

“Don’t you think people might get the wrong fucking idea if you hang up erotic pictures of your own damn roommate?”

Jim just waggled his eyebrows and gave Bones a disturbing grin. 

Groaning, Bones took another swig of whiskey. “If you get within a foot of the centerline of this room wearing that expression, I’m calling the cops.” That was just Jim. Sex was always on the fucking table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming up: Bones discovers he has a new admirer.


	3. Chapter 3

The gallery show turned out to be a tempest in a teapot. After Bones failed to register interest in anybody’s advances, the attention paid to him quickly died down. Things went back to normal-- except for having to wince and look away every time his eyes wandered over to the picture hanging on Jim’s wall. 

Then the jet stream shifted, deflecting the onshore breeze, and for once, the city turned sweltering hot as the inland heat crept out toward the coast. All over the academy, cadets flocked onto the quad, shedding their red jackets for tank tops or even just for their bare skins, turning their pale bellies up to the sun. 

Bones missed the hot Georgia summers of his childhood, so he was right there with them, dragging along a padd so he could keep up with his studies. Starfleet Academy might not be quite as bad as med school-- at least, not for him; he already had his MD-- but it was still pretty goddamn challenging, what with his psychology and exobiology double majors and trying to ride herd on Jim Kirk, which was a full-time job all by itself.

He found a nice shady spot under a tree where he could read the screen without a lot of glare and still bask in the heat, and had settled in nicely with his uniform coat pillowed under his head when he abruptly realized he was no longer alone. Just a handful of yards away, located directly in the brilliant sun and still buttoned up to the chin in spite of the heat, sat his erstwhile nemesis, Commander Spock. The Vulcan balanced a sketchpad on his knee, and the sound of his pencil moving over the paper was probably what had alerted McCoy to his presence. 

Bones’s peripheral vision informed him Spock looked decidedly odd sitting there cross-legged in full uniform with numerous happy human cadets in various states of undress capering around behind him, doing stuff like throwing frisbees and making out. Spock paid them no attention. There was that same flat gaze again, just like in class, fixed firmly on McCoy. 

Bones sighed. “In most human cultures, it’s considered rude to walk up and draw somebody without asking for permission,” he announced without ever lifting his gaze from the padd. 

“My apologies.” Spock waited a beat. “May I have permission to draw you?”

McCoy considered the request. The afternoon heat felt so good he didn’t want to retreat indoors to get away from the guy, not even though the commander looked like he might be turning into a fucking stalker. Bones sighed, feeling put-upon. “On two conditions: you don’t put the drawing on public display anywhere afterwards, and you don’t give it to anybody I know.”

“Agreed,” Spock said easily, and his pencil resumed its scratching. 

They stayed there all afternoon. By the time Bones felt his eyelids drooping and his padd sagging onto his chest, the pencil was still scraping over the paper. He shut his eyes and hoped that whenever he opened them again, Spock would be gone.

He was; when Bones stirred again, the quad was deserted and the sun had gone down. A chill breeze was starting to play in the leaves overhead, and the ground under him was unpleasantly clammy. If Bones didn’t get a move on, he was going to miss dinner. He went to sit up and realized the coat covering him wasn’t his own; his red coat was still folded under his head.

Bones sat up with a sinking stomach and picked up the jacket someone had draped over him. 

“Good Godamighty!” he exploded. It was a dark gray instructor’s uniform coat, complete with a commander’s rank insignia. 

“There you are!” Jim trotted into view, alerted by the explosion of profanity. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Cafeteria’s about to close. What, did you fall asleep?”

Bones tried to hide the jacket behind his back, but it was already too late. 

“What’s that?” Jim nabbed it easily, then whistled. “A commander’s coat? Where the hell did you get this? No wonder I couldn’t find you in the dark.” 

“Gimme that.” Bones scrambled up, snatching for the jacket unsuccessfully while simultaneously trying to put on his own clothes. “It’s obviously not mine, for fucksake, don’t go messing it up.” Hell, the damn thing probably had dirt on it already, or bugs or something. He’d have to have it cleaned and then find the fucking bastard and give it back to him. 

“Bones.” Jim’s eyes gleamed with mischief; when McCoy grabbed for the jacket, he backed away in the direction of the cafeteria. “Whose is this?”

“The hell if I know!” Bones lied. “I didn’t have the damn thing when I fell asleep! Somebody put it over me while I was out.”

“Leonard Horatio McCoy.” Jim mocked him with paternal sternness as he held the jacket up, eyeballing it for size. “You should always ask someone his name before you sleep with him.”

“Fuck you and the sanctimonious hypocritical bullshit you rode in on.” Bones snatched for the jacket again and finally succeeded in nabbing it. He shook it out and carefully folded it over his arm.

“I’m thinking you know whose jacket that is,” Jim mused. “But you don’t want me to know. And that can mean only one thing.”

“Jim, I swear to God, I’m going to sign you up for experimental hemorrhoid treatments if you don’t--” 

“Bones has a boyfriend! Bones has a boyfriend!” Jim kept on singing as they entered the cafeteria, and McCoy wondered if he could convince the med school staff it’d be a good idea to revisit the possibility of treating hemorrhoids with an application of turpentine. 

Jim made an ass of himself all through dinner, scanning the crowd for coatless commanders, but fortunately Spock was nowhere to be seen. McCoy conscientiously kept the jacket laid over his lap, not wanting to let it out of his hands, but half-afraid he’d spill something on it. “Can you let it go, for Christ’s sake? I’ve still got an exam to finish studying for.”

“Oh my God.” Jim’s eyes riveted somewhere behind Bones, going wide, and Bones felt his stomach sink. “It’s his; it’s gotta be. ...Of _course_ it is!”

Bones forced down a bite of his salad and tried not to lunge across the table to kill Jim, who was staring at a moving point just behind McCoy's back like he was watching Santa Claus come early. 

“Commander,” Jim said, managing to infuse his tone with at least a little proper decorum in spite of the gleam in his eye. “Can we help you?”

“Cadet Kirk.” The response was coolly polite. “Cadet McCoy. I trust you did not grow chilled earlier.”

“Here’s your coat,” McCoy said without looking up, aware he was being a little rude as he passed it over. He couldn’t make himself keep it up, though; his mama had raised him right. “Thanks. I guess I’ve been putting in too many late-night study sessions.” McCoy turned, perforce, in order to make polite eye contact while he was speaking, but the words stopped in his throat, arrested by the sight of the man standing at his side. Spock wore regulation gray trousers and a black thermal undershirt that clung to his frame, highlighting a narrow waist, flat belly, and a nicely toned upper body. 

_Shit. He’s **hot**._

“The weather was extremely clement and congenial to resting.” Spock accepted the jacket and put it on, neatly sealing the front and covering the pleasant sight of his torso wrapped in clinging black fabric. McCoy blinked at him. 

“It was. I hear it’s gonna be like this for a week or two,” he finally answered, feeling awkward.

“Indeed. I anticipate seeing you again, Cadet McCoy, under similar circumstances.” Spock inclined his head, almost a polite half-bow. “Mr. Kirk,” he said to Jim, and excused himself.

“Damn, Bones,” Kirk said softly when he had departed, but there wasn’t any of that mischievous sparkle in his voice now, and Bones heard the sobriety like a warning klaxon. “I think he’s actually interested in you.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Uh-uh. He barely had a word for me, but he made sure to say he intends to see you again.”

“Dammit, Jim, all we did was talk about the weather! You can’t manufacture an epic romance out of something like that.”

“You can if the guy who’s doing it’s the same guy who drew those sexy pictures.” Jim was still staring after Spock. “What’d he say to you earlier?”

Bones flushed. “Asked to draw me again.” He gritted the words from between clenched teeth. 

“ _Quod erat demonstrandum_ ,” Kirk announced, triumphant. 

“I’m not dating a Vulcan.” Bones kept his voice low. It didn’t matter whether the man was hot or not, he _wasn’t._ “I already spent three years of my life sleeping in the same bed with a damn ice cube, Jim. I’m no glutton for punishment.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Good God Amighty:_ Pronounced exactly as it's spelled, this is the ultimate Georgia expression of shock, dismay, surprise, terror, distress, rage, or pretty much any other sudden, strong feeling. As an interjection, it serves to let you know the Southerner who spoke it is at the absolute extreme end of startled emotion. When yelled at a nice gray jacket with commander's stripes on the sleeves, it almost certainly means "Holy shit! I'm so fucked; that green-blooded hobgoblin is totally hot for me."
> 
> _Quod erat demonstrandum:_ Latin phrase meaning 'which is what was to be shown.' In other words, "Congratulations; Bones! You just proved my point."
> 
> Thank you, my much-appreciated readers, for braving the dire threat of Jim Kirk/Carol Marcus to be here with me today. You are the few, the brave, the truly blessed. I am honored to have every single one of you. I promise their part of the story won't get explicit. Please feel free to bring a friend when you return. ^_^


	4. Chapter 4

Bones kept his word. He spent the next two weeks of the best weather San Francisco ever had hiding in his room studying whenever he wasn’t in class, getting Jim to bring him back a box of dinner from the cafeteria most nights instead of going out himself. Astonishingly enough, Jim did it without complaining or teasing Bones at all. ….Maybe the fucker was actually jealous.

By the end of the second week, Bones was ahead in all his classes and ready to go stir crazy. That damn picture was staring at him; he could swear it was. He wondered if he could persuade Jim to send it home to his mother after all.

Sighing, Bones put on his uniform; time for clinical xenodiagnostics. He cut a hasty shortcut through the quad, keeping an eye out just in case, and was glad to make it into the class unmolested… only to find the test subject waiting for him in his clinical was Commander Spock. 

Should you tell a senior officer and an instructor to get lost before you reported him for stalking? Bones stared at the man with his heart doing an odd leap and nervous flutter in his chest. Yeah, you should-- and what’s more, Bones would have to, or what Spock was doing wouldn’t actually count as harassment. But Bones hadn't quite made up his mind on whether he felt threatened yet. It was more flattering than threatening. Maybe.

“Cadet McCoy. I hope you have not been ill,” the commander greeted him politely. “I have noticed your absence from cafeteria meals.”

“I’m fine. And I’m supposed to be the one with the damn bedside manner.” Bones slid a look at the TA supervising his session. “Let’s find out what the problem is. Hop up on the biobed and let me have a look,” he said, forcing a note of joviality he didn’t feel. He remembered it wasn’t considered polite to touch a Vulcan patient casually, so he didn’t offer a steadying hand as Spock obeyed. 

As soon as the table tipped back the readouts appeared. McCoy frowned at them, hunting for whatever abnormalities the TA had pre-programmed into the scenario. Given the patient it was bound to be a racially specific condition, but information on Vulcan anatomy and pathology was at a frustrating minimum in his ‘Fleet xeno texts. All he had to go by were some common conditions and a list of symptoms for each. “What symptoms are you presenting with?” Damn it, Vulcans weren’t a specialty of his. Dr. Noralis definitely had it in for him; he knew Bones was already a better doctor than he’d ever been. Some teachers couldn’t handle that sort of thing; Noralis was one.

“I am experiencing unusual breathlessness after exertion.” Spock spoke mildly.

McCoy eyed Spock, wracking his brain; something about that tickled at him, though he didn’t remember any specifics yet. He whipped out his light pen and started standard testing. “Follow this with your eyes.” 

Some lag there, and though he could tell it was exaggerated, he filed it away as a symptom. “I’m gonna scan your neurological systems,” he warned. “Computer, activate brainscan diagnostic pattern five alpha.” 

Spock lay back placidly and allowed the scan to commence; while it was in process, McCoy consulted his padd, researching further indications. 

“We’re going to do some fine motor control testing, too,” he decided. “We need to rule out Tuvan Syndrome.” 

The attending TA made a note on her padd and McCoy rejoiced internally; he’d learned to read the TAs’ obvious cues almost as well as he could read the computer screen over Spock’s head. He’d just made a significant diagnostic step; it remained to be seen if he’d chosen the right direction or the wrong one. 

The fine motor control test results also showed problems, and McCoy proceeded with more confidence after that, finally entering a preliminary diagnosis of Tuvan Syndrome and presenting it to the TA.

“Excellent, cadet.” She marked his diagnosis a success and he read the grade backward through the clear padd. He drew himself up, bouncing a little with relief; apparently he hadn’t trodden on any cultural taboos or done anything stupid he’d have to justify later.

“Glad you don’t actually have that. It’s a nasty one.” McCoy turned back to Spock and elevated the biobed to vertical, remembering a second too late this was his stalker he was being friendly with. “No cure for it.” 

“As I am aware.” Spock stepped off the bed. “Cadet McCoy, seeing your discomfort at my presence in your clinical, I have come to wonder if you have been purposely avoiding me.” 

“Don’t know where you got that idea.” McCoy mumbled, flushing. “I’m a busy man. School’s no picnic.”

Spock raised a brow at him and fell into step with McCoy as he retreated. “That is unfortunate, as I had hoped you would be willing to pose for me again. I have found drawing to be a therapeutic activity, reductive of stress, and you are an aesthetically agreeable subject.”

McCoy shot him side-eye. “I’m gonna be blunt here, sir. I hope you won’t take offense.” He took a deep breath. “I’m a doctor, not a relationship expert. Are you coming on to me, or am I misreading the situation?”

Spock raised both brows at him, and they came to a halt facing one another. “I do not believe that term is accurate in the traditional Terran sense, no, as I am not proposing to draw you with the intention of substituting sexual intercourse for the agreed activity once you have consented to be drawn.”

“Well.” McCoy tried not to blush and failed miserably. “That’s a relief, I have to say. The way you sexualized me in your drawings made me feel pretty uncomfortable.”

Spock tilted his head at McCoy, but he did not seem perturbed. “I have encountered this claim of sexualization and objectification numerous times regarding my drawings of you, and I confess I am baffled by it. In what way did I sexualize my work?”

McCoy drew a deep breath and blew it out again, absolutely unable to provide a satisfactory answer. 

“I’m not an art critic, either. I don’t know how to explain that aspect of your work to you it if you can’t see it yourself, but the other artists obviously didn’t draw me that way, and a lot of people responded to your drawings sexually, so there’s definitely a difference there.”

“Indeed.” Spock began walking again. “And yet, I merely drew what I perceived.”

 _Like hell._ McCoy was blushing as he fell in at the Vulcan’s side. “Maybe you should read up on objectification and the Gaze.” Damn it, now they had _him_ using the fucking capital.

“I have done so.” Spock regarded him calmly for a moment. “The vast majority of the critical corpus on the topic seems vague and overblown, verbose without basis in quantifiable specifics or other empirical evidence. If I may say so, I find most art critics intellectually self-aggrandizing, if not actually masturbatory.”

McCoy barked a genuine laugh at that, unable to stop himself. “Watch out, commander, or I might actually start to like you.”

“That would be an acceptable outcome of our association.” They walked on for a moment. “Would you be willing to allow me to draw you this weekend?”

McCoy relented, aware that his capitulation felt very much like he was surrendering to the thin end of the wedge. Obviously Commander Spock was a force of nature. He considered for a minute. “OK, fine. I can give you an hour or two.”

“I have an apartment at this address,” Spock withdrew a card and presented it to him. “The light comes through the front window in a particularly pleasing manner at approximately 09:00 hours.” 

“You want me to spend two hours standing naked in front of a window?”

“I anticipate drawing you fully clad.”

“Then I’ll be there with bells on.”

Spock raised a brow at that, but he seemed satisfied.


	5. Chapter 5

McCoy did some reading of his own prior to the weekend, spending a while in the xenopsychology files of the archive. He came up with some pretty plausible theories on the ways repression and sublimation of the sex drive could result in unintentional manifestations of sexual desire, even in aliens. The mandate to reproduce was evidently universal, and some form of lust hormones almost always drove it. 

His speculation was all happy horse-shit, no doubt-- there wasn’t a lot of psychoanalytical data to be had regarding Vulcans, and absolutely zero regarding Vulcan/human hybrids (of which Spock was evidently one). But his gut told him he was on the right track; Spock probably spent so much time and effort repressing any human emotions he’d been born with, they’d just about have to leak out somewhere, almost surely with dramatic force. 

For example, through artistic expression with intense sensual elements. 

It didn’t necessarily mean he wanted Bones, _per se_ ; it just meant he was ignoring his basic sexual needs, and they were going to manifest sooner or later whether he wanted them to or not. It was probably healthy for him to work some of that stuff out with a pencil and paper. 

Armed with a little bit of knowledge and a whole lot of assumptions, Bones got dressed to go and tried to tiptoe out before Jim woke up. Failure was probably inevitable. 

“The hell you going at this time of day?” Jim cracked a bleary eye at him. “It’s the weekend, for fucksake.”

“Got an appointment. Go back to sleep. I left a hangover hypo in the bathroom by the sink.” Bones let himself out. Sunlight washed over the city though it was a foggy morning on the water, the air thick with chill and heavy with humidity. He turned up his collar against the damp, trotting across the quad to the nearest site-to-site transporter station.

The apartment was in a nice neighborhood-- better than nice, overlooking the bay without too many skyscrapers in the way. When McCoy materialized near the top of a hill somewhere between Twin Peaks and the Castro, he blinked up at the imposing house-fronts, all done in tasteful retro style. Some of them were maybe even original construction. 

He hunted up the right one and rang; he was buzzed in immediately. Trotting up the steps to the third level, he found himself inexplicably nervous, wondering why the hell he’d ever agreed to this ridiculous arrangement.

The apartment was spacious by San Francisco standards, with an open floor plan and a wide bay window that stretched all the way to the floor. On the floor with its head touching the wall, a simple futon pallet lay neatly made up in white sheets and pillowcases with blue triangles printed on them, crisp and wrinkle-free under a white goose-down comforter. There was a sparse array of cooking equipment stored in the kitchen and a few pieces of fruit lay ripening on the bar. A lonely computer desk held a terminal and a stack of padds, and there were two or three small sculptures scattered about on various built-in shelves and nooks. Other than that, few personal possessions were in evidence. 

Spock greeted him with a polite hello, and McCoy blinked at the man’s civilian clothing. He had apparently decided to adopt Terran fashion, choosing crisp dark jeans and a long-sleeved button-up shirt. His feet were bare. An easel and a chair waited in the center of the floor, and a pad of paper sat propped on its tray.

McCoy was entirely uncertain he ought to be doing anything as disreputable as associating with a barefoot half-Vulcan who was also his superior officer, but here he was, so he stepped inside and tried not to let on how freaked out he felt by agreeing to meet the guy. He went to the window and gazed out at the bay, where tendrils of fog crept around the Golden Gate, half-obscuring it. “Pretty swank,” he said. Except for the decor, it was an understatement. 

McCoy was suddenly very keenly aware that he was alone in the apartment with the man, who had shown an unprecedented, possibly sexual, interest in him. As a Vulcan/human hybrid, Spock was easily three times as strong as an average human male. Nobody actually knew where Bones was, and the last trackable record was the on-site transporter three or four blocks away. As an alien, Spock gave off a weird, intense vibe-- and Bones couldn’t read him very well. 

Spock seemed unaware of his sudden flicker of panic, offering an explanation for his living quarters. “My father arranged this residence for me. While I was a student I chose to abide in the dormitory with my fellow students, but after graduation I was no longer offered on-site accommodation, so I chose to relocate here. These are diplomatic quarters, intended for offworld dignitaries, but as my father is an ambassador, they were offered to me as a courtesy to him.”

Bones suddenly realized Spock was uncomfortable, almost apologetic, about the lovely apartment and how he had received the right to live in it. Hell, he’d even said he preferred the dorms. God. Bones couldn’t imagine him living there, especially not with a roommate en suite.

“No, it’s good,” he said, relaxing and stuffing his hands in his pockets as he surveyed the vista. “I like the bay.” As long as he was looking out from inside, anyway. 

He realized Spock was ready to draw; he had repositioned his easel and sat down. He appeared to be working with pastels today.

“If you are comfortable as you are, I will proceed.”

“OK.” Bones stayed like he was, gradually relaxing as he looked out over the cityscape toward the bay. It didn’t seem like the commander was going to pounce on him, at least not right away. Alcatraz faded in and out of the fog on the right, and the bridge stretched out quietly on the left, delineating the rough boundaries of the view. Bones watched seabirds darting and diving in the sky, fishing out on the rough, choppy water, and thought about the Anglins and Frank Morris and their prison break: three desperate men on a makeshift raincoat raft trying to paddle their way across the bay to Angel Island, beset by treacherous currents and bitterly cold water. Nobody ever found out for sure if they made it or not. Probably the fish wound up picking their skeletons clean on the ocean floor. Was it worth that kind of suffering to die a free man?

He lost himself so deeply in his thoughts he didn’t notice time passing until Spock stepped to his side, offering him a steaming cup of something that looked like chai and smelled both spicy and savory, with a delicate floral note.

“Vulcan tea,” Spock said. “I have sugar and other condiments if you would like to season it to your taste.”

“Thanks.” He tasted it and added a small amount of sugar, then sipped the warm liquid with pleasure. Spock didn’t have a table aside from his computer desk, so he held the delicate Royal Doulton china cup in one hand and its matching saucer in the other. “It’s good.” He glanced at the chrono and blinked, surprised to find it was nearly noon. 

“Have you ever visited Alcatraz?” Spock inquired, apparently guessing the direction of his thoughts from having watched him look out toward the island for the better part of the morning.

“Always meant to. Never made it out.”

“There is an excellent tour available.”

Somehow (and he was never quite sure how, except it served to confirm that Spock was a force of nature), Bones soon found himself aboard a ferry across the bay, staying inside the enclosed cabin where it was warm, then climbing all over the damned old moldering prison hill with a set of headphones on, listening to tales of the old days. The place had a strange, wild beauty to it, with wildflowers growing in crannies between harsh expanses of concrete and asphalt. Gazing across the water toward the Ghirardelli chocolate factory, he couldn’t figure out exactly where Spock’s window was no matter how hard he tried to pick out the individual building. 

An arm of fog crept between him and the mainland, blocking the view, and he turned back to the prison, moving into the block by the windows, where solar gain made things a little warmer. Spock stood outside the catwalk to the gun gallery at the end of one corridor, his dark head tilted as he listened intently to the guided audio tour. 

Sunlight streamed in through the windows set in the outer wall of the building, the security bars tracing a lattice of gridwork shadows on the floor. McCoy stopped in the middle of a pool of light near the end of the hall, soaking up the sunshine, and waited, studying the way the construction of the bars allowed for the lowest set of windows to be opened, until the narrative finished and Spock disengaged the recording. 

“Wouldn’t like to be locked up in here.” 

“Indeed not.” Spock considered the tall, austere walls and ceiling. “However, I believe I could have engineered a successful escape.”

McCoy grinned in spite of himself. “Prison break expert, huh?”

“I did escape my father’s house on Vulcan.”

“Was that a joke?” McCoy blinked, startled, but Spock had already re-started the recording and resumed moving along the guided tour, sedate, as if he had never spoken.

Would miracles never cease?


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is definitely, definitely AOS Kirk... who's everything TOS Kirk isn't when it comes to actually being an obnoxious womanizer. :p Thanks, J. J. 9_9

Jim was pissed off by the time Bones dragged in, pleasantly tired and with his head stuffed full of penitentiary lore. 

“Where the hell’ve you been?”

“In prison.”

“What?” Jim sat bolt upright, alarmed.

“You should’ve come and rescued me. As it was, I had to break out on my own.” 

Jim’s eyes narrowed with sudden insight. “You went to Alcatraz Island.” 

“Yeah,” Bones confessed. “That’s where I wound up.”

“Without me.”

“Well, it wasn’t like I planned to when I went out this morning.”

“Who’d you go with?”

Bones fidgeted. No way to dissemble; Jim was like a dog worrying at a bone if you tried to keep something a secret from him. “The commander.”

That set Jim back on his heels. “You met him? You let him draw you again? You _went out with him?”_

“Yeah.” Bones exhaled in defeat, flopping down on his bed, then realized Jim was still talking. “... **No!** It wasn’t a date. He said there was a good tour. Neither of us had been. It was the weekend. It was just… convenient to go.” Goddammit, he was _not_ going to say it was ‘logical.’

“Why did you agree to let him draw you in the first place?”

 _“Ah, mon pere, ca lui fait tant de plaisir, et a moi si peu de peine!”_ Bones quoted Dostoevksy, staring at the ceiling. Jim was like a damn burr under his saddle; he just wouldn’t quit digging.

“I’m not your damn father. In either a religious or a secular sense.” Jim sat cross-legged on his bed. “Don’t fall for him, Bones.”

“I’m not gonna.” That much he was certain of. 

“Good. Because he’s a Vulcan. They don’t have feelings like humans. He’s torn the guts out of half the cadets in xenolinguistics, advanced theoretical mathematics, and AI programming algorithm design already, and there’s no end in sight. You just walk out that door and you’ll find half a dozen broken hearts with his name on them on either side of the hall before you reach the end.” 

“Damn it.” Bones heaved an exasperated sigh. “For one thing, he’s only half Vulcan, and for another, I’m not attracted to him.” 

“Good.” Jim tried to grin. “You of all people ought to know better than to date an alien.”

“Oh, that’s rich, coming from you!” 

“Gaila’s different. She’s not an emotionally unavailable intellectual genius who’ll still be a virgin at eighty, and like it that way.”

“And you won’t be with her by the end of the school year, either.” Bones sat up, shaking a finger at Kirk. “Because the hearts Commander Spock hasn’t broken on this hall, you broke yourself, Jim, and don’t you dare try to deny it!”

“You’re stuck between the devil and the deep blue sea, aren’t you?” Jim’s tone was light, but he was serious, and they both knew it. 

Yeah. He was. 

Bones lay back down on his bed and picked up a padd, determined to ignore Jim. “You’re so full of it. Get the fuck out of here and get something to eat. Get drunk, get laid. I don’t care. I’m behind on my study schedule.”

*****

As far as fights with Jim went, Bones considered their disagreement over Commander Spock a pretty intense one, with lots of free-floating stuff going on underneath the surface that didn’t actually get said. Jim didn’t ever make it back that night, and when he finally did wander in sometime Monday morning, he was covered with love bites and needed an antibiotic for the clap. Bones prescribed it without editorial commentary and minded his own business, which coincidentally included receiving a letter from Commander Spock requesting Bones’s services as a model the next Saturday. 

He was just pissed off enough to accept, sending the response with a pointed flick of his wrist, putting some English on the keystroke that did the deed. 

He found himself looking forward to it all week, and he turned up right on time.

Spock brewed tea again and bright sunlight poured in through the sparkling glass; sailboats floated over the glittering surface of the bay under a wide, cloudless blue sky. Spock had another bank of windows looking down toward Golden Gate Park; he had raised the shades in both walls, letting more light into the apartment. 

Spock sketched Bones sitting at the computer desk with his hands wrapped around the steaming mug of tea. He spent a lot of time on it, but Bones didn’t complain even when the tea went tepid, then cold. He made sure to glance at the finished sketch, though. Somehow the picture made his hands seem prominent, picking out every knob of his knuckles and every scar or nick from his work on the farm-- but in a way that made his hands look both capable and beautiful, like birds about to take flight, as if the artist had seen every work they had ever done and even the undone works they might do someday. 

Bones shook his head. “At least you didn’t sexualize me this time.”

Spock merely raised a brow at him and did not comment. 

“I am informed the Cetacean Institute in Sausalito maintains an excellent multilevel display of flora and fauna commonly found in the giant kelp biome,” he said instead. “They have also successfully cultivated a number of ocean sunfish, a rarity in captive environments.”

“Kelp, huh?” Bones laughed. “You sure know how to show a guy a good time.” He shrugged. If Jim wanted to make a big stink over a trip to see something as damn dull as kelp, he could stick it right in his ear. “Why not?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Ah, mon pere, ca lui fait tant de plaisir, et a moi si peu de peine!:_ Ah, father, it gives him so much pleasure and me so little trouble! --Fyodor Dostoevsky, _The Brothers Karamazov_
> 
> Sorry this one is so short; that's just where it needed to break. A little longer one is coming up soon-- the next chapter is actually the one where this light little fluffy plotbunny suddenly revealed that it was, in fact, a vicious, savage PLOT TYRANNOSAURUS REX that wants me to fix all the awful stuff in the first two movies of the reboot. 9_9


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One more short one, and then I'll post a longer one! Bear with me-- there are natural divides in this thing.

The Saturday posing-sessions-turned-tourist-trips became a regular thing somehow over the next couple of months, even though Bones didn’t really mean for them to. By the time he started to realize he was actually friends with the man, it was already late November, somehow, and it was automatic now to get up on Saturday morning and go find Spock. He stopped by a corner bakery and bought bagels and cream cheese and veggie spread, then went on over. 

They ate breakfast together; Spock had a small store of dishes tucked away in a cabinet, all of them just as fragile and elegant as the china cups he used for tea. Spock broke out the sketchpad and started in while Bones was still eating, and McCoy just shook his head, amazed at the man’s oddity. You’d think he’d want dramatic poses or something, not some guy with a smear of cream cheese on his upper lip. 

Spock scratched away just like it was a still life destined to become great art, so Bones just shrugged and decided what the hell. No point just sitting here being bored, frozen with half a bagel in his hand. If they were gonna hang out, they might as well try to get to know each other a little. 

“What d’you think about Admiral Marcus’s Preparatory Defense Initiative, Commander?” 

Spock glanced up from the sketchpad, raising a brow. “I am cautious of it, Cadet. While the rhetoric with which he has surrounded the proposal is persuasive, it is also highly emotional and seems tailored to play on ambiguous fears and xenophobic prejudices. Militarization of Starfleet, whether defensive or not, is a deeply controversial topic.”

“I gotta confess, it bugs me too. We went through all that xenophobic, colonialistic warfare bullshit a few decades ago, and the current organizational mission is a result of hard-won reforms.” Bones frowned. “Looks like the pendulum is set to swing, though. Half the galaxy is singing along.”

“Indeed. My father was dismayed by the proposal’s enthusiastic reception.”

“Is he on Earth?” McCoy inquired, polite. 

“Frequently, yes.” Spock’s face and voice remained absolutely neutral-- a little tell McCoy was learning to read as a signal of Spock’s negative reaction to the topic at hand. “He has aligned himself against Admiral Marcus’s proposals.”

“Well, that’s good,” McCoy kept his voice noncommittal, wondering what kind of nasty family warfare he’d stumbled over by accident. Spock had once said he’d ‘escaped’ his family home on Vulcan… probably best not to dig any deeper, then.

“It is a logical choice.” Spock poured more tea for them both. “Cadet McCoy, as our association appears to have moved beyond what is normal for a professional interaction and into what humans would call ‘friendship,’ perhaps you would prefer we adopt informal forms of address when we are not acting in our professional capacity.”

Bones laughed in spite of himself at the awkwardness of it; he’d been thinking the same thing for about three weeks, but the damned Vulcan was so ramrod stiff he hadn’t quite figured out how to bring it up. “Okay. I can do that, but I’ll warn you, I don’t think I can pronounce your whole name correctly.” 

“It is not possible for Terran vocal chords to render my name accurately. Spock will be sufficient, omitting the formal title designating my rank.”

McCoy laughed again; the whole conversation felt strangely surreal, as if he were talking to an AI computer, not making a friend. “I don’t know what to tell you to call me. Jim calls me Bones, but he’s the only one. My ex-wife used to call me Lenny or Len, so no. I fucking hate Leo. Some of my classmates at med school called me Plum, but they were mostly girls and that was a long time ago. Of course, you could try to call me Horatio, but then I’d have to kill you.” He shrugged, a little embarrassed as he realized he’d been babbling. “There’s always Leonard, but only my mom ever calls me that.”

“As I have no wish to die, I will call you Leonard.” Spock’s dark eyes rested on him for a long moment as if assessing his response. 

Bones snorted. “Suit yourself.” He shifted, self-conscious. “Why do you keep drawing me? If you just want somebody to--” for some reason he hesitated to use the word ‘friend.’ “--talk to, we could just do that.”

“I find the activity relaxing, Leonard. Practice enhances my existing skills, and you are a congenial subject.”

“Whatever you say, Spock.” It was damn near impossible to say the name by itself without feeling like he’d be called up on the carpet for sassing a superior officer, but he made himself spit it out. 

“I am capable of drawing and speaking simultaneously.” Spock gazed at him for a moment, then returned his attention to the paper. “It is interesting you should bring up Admiral Marcus, as his proposal has preoccupied my thoughts for some time. The ramifications for relations with the Klingon race alone are far-reaching and potentially disastrous--”

Apparently McCoy had activated Spock’s lecture mode. He settled in to let the man get his rant on, making noise in the appropriate places. He agreed, for the most part, but when Spock started focusing on the supply chain instead of the front lines, McCoy couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

“Now hold on, hold on. Don’t tell me about supplies and materiel. You’re getting too far from what’s really important.” He forgot his pose and lifted a finger, sticking it toward Spock’s nose to stop him. “There’s a humanitarian cost of militarization as well. Civilian casualties, military conscriptions… preparing for war guarantees the other side thinks we want war, and if we go to war, casualties and suffering are inevitable on both sides.”

“I had not forgotten the cost of war in terms of emotional damage, Leonard. However, the supply chain incurs its own cost in sentient suffering.”

“Well, you’ve got me there, I guess, but at least people in the supply chain tend to get fair recompense for services rendered. How do you compensate a kid who listens to a bunch of jingoistic jargon, then goes out and gets his legs and his dick blown off before he’s twenty-two? Maybe even gets himself killed? You’re gonna get a lot farther pointing stuff like that out than complaining about the violated rights of miners on some backwater asteroid belt.” 

McCoy shook his head, frustrated. “I don’t care if you Vulcans aren’t emotional reactors; you’re dealing with humans and other sentient races who are. So if your dad wants to be persuasive about cutting off Marcus’s support, he needs to fight fire with fire. Right now there’re no frontline casualties, no, just the supply chain, right. I get it. But if you want to nip militarization in the bud, you need to start early and make people see those future casualties from day one. Hit ‘em right in the gut, let ‘em know they’re gonna lose their siblings, their lovers, their kids. Then they’ll back off from supporting Marcus.” 

Spock paused, tilting his head as he shuffled the argument into his inner deck of cards. “You have an excellent point. I will make my father aware of it.” He paused. “However, he does not have a history of accepting my advice.” 

“That’s the older generation for ya.” McCoy took a belated swallow of his cold tea. 

“Are you free Tuesday evening, Leonard?” Spock said suddenly, surprising him out of the blue. “I have been invited to attend an event where my father will be present, and I may bring a guest. I would like very much for you to meet Ambassador Sarek and make these arguments to him yourself.”

Bones blinked. “You want me to subvert a fleet admiral by advising the Vulcan Ambassador on official matters of diplomatic policy in terms of manipulating human emotional response.”

“Yes, I believe that is what I said.” 

“Oh. Well. I think I could maybe clear my schedule,” Bones admitted, and just like that, it was agreed.


	8. Chapter 8

Bones’s cadet uniform was the best thing he had to wear to a formal event, so he picked a crisp new one out and had it cleaned and pressed for the occasion, then tormented himself over what to do with his hair. He finally parted it on one side and combed along his forehead, setting it with some gel so it wouldn’t spike up if he got sweaty. God, he was so fucking nervous. Not like this was a date, though, no; that wasn’t why he was freaking out. It was talking to the ambassador that had him sweating bullets. 

Jim wasn’t anywhere to be seen, so thank God he missed the show. The bastard had a new girlfriend, so he was probably with her; Gaila was pissed off with him over something or other and he’d immediately picked up a pretty blonde out on the quad to replace her, just like Bones had predicted. 

The relationship there was pretty new, actually. McCoy’d walked in on them just two days ago. She hadn’t actually been naked yet; she’d still been standing up, eyeing the place, her top a crumpled heap on the floor, her hands in the waistband of her skirt. Thank God she’d still had her bra on.

“You display homoerotic artwork on your dormitory wall, Jim?” Her voice had been petite and clear, very amused, and Bones had flushed red to the gills, snatching for his things preparatory to making a run for it. 

“That’s my roommate’s. His boyfriend drew him.” Jim looked over her shoulder, challenging Bones with lifted brows. “Isn’t it well-hung?”

“Fuck you, Jim. The artist’s not my boyfriend. It was for a life-drawing class. Excuse me, miss.” Bones had snatched his bookbag and made a run for it, leaving them alone to get up to whatever they wanted. Knowing Jim, he’d been into the girl’s panties before Bones ever got into the turbolift and headed down to class.

Bones shook off the memory and sighed, looking with distaste at his cadet reds. It was the best he could do. 

A chime at the door announced a visitor: Spock, wearing dress blues. They were really doing this. They were going to a big diplomatic dinner together, the half-Vulcan commander and his obnoxious pet cadet. Great. 

Spock gazed into the room, his alert gaze cataloging everything, stopping to rest on the picture, which Jim had hung over his bed. One brow rose. 

“No, you aren’t seeing things. Just don’t let Jim tell you how well it’s hung,” Bones muttered, slipping past him and out into the hall, embarrassed as hell even though Spock had drawn the damn thing himself. 

“I believe I _am_ seeing things,” Spock objected. “My visual acuity is uncompromised.”

“Dammit, Spock, it’s an idiom.” He led the way toward the turbolift. “Says that what you saw was real, not your imagination.”

Spock paused for just the right interval. “...I see.” 

_Nobody_ had a fucking deadpan like a Vulcan. Bones groaned at the joke. “That was the worst one ever.” 

“I am not sure what you mean.”

“Yeah right.” Bones jabbed the call button. “You know damn well you just made a joke.”

“No, I was referring to the hanging of my picture,” Spock evaded deftly. “Why should Kirk not ensure it is properly secured to the wall? It would be undesirable if the frame were to fall in the night and injure the sleeper below--”

“It’s another damned idiom, Spock; one of Jim’s. This one I refuse to explain.” 

That was the best part of the evening; the banquet was pretty dismal. Like at most diplomatic functions, the fare was indifferent. Bones wondered what the hell people were thinking when they invariably served roasted chicken breast at a formal meal. Spock was lucky he didn’t have to navigate dismembering a chicken of his own; he remained neat and pristine behind a somewhat overcooked vegetable plate, drinking mineral water. 

The Vulcan ambassador had received pride of place at the front table among various dignitaries and Starfleet brass. McCoy studied him politely in between sipping water and trying to dissect his dinner. Sarek bore a distinct resemblance to Spock, but McCoy couldn’t tell if it was hereditary or racial.

The reception afterwards would’ve proved equally dull, except McCoy spotted a few cadets; the red uniforms stood out among the somber shades of the dignitaries and diplomats. The one that caught his eye first, though, was Jim. He was standing there with his little blonde, and the two of them were chatting with Admiral Marcus himself. As McCoy watched, the admiral put a paternal hand on the girl’s back and gave Jim a steady, steady warning stare, the trademark of protective fathers throughout the galaxy.

Bones whistled soundlessly and would’ve turned away, but Jim caught his eye and excused himself, sloping over to say hello.

“So you’re here with your boyfriend.”

“So you’re here with Admiral Marcus’s baby daughter,” Bones defended by counterattacking. “Did ya know that when you first brought her back to the room?”

“Of course I did.” That was a lie if Bones had ever heard one. “I notice you’ve stopped denying you’re going out with Commander Spock.”

“It’s a waste of effort; you don’t listen.” Bones raised a brow. “This isn’t a date. He brought me here because he wanted me to tell his father--”

“He brought you to meet his _father?”_ Jim squeaked. _”Jesus Christ_ , Bones, the fucker’s acting _serious_ , and you won’t even admit you’re dating him!”

“That’s because I’m not, you asshole. Look. He just wanted me to tell Ambassador Sarek about a manipulative technique that might work to--”

“He wanted you. To tell Ambassador Sarek. About a manipulative technique.” Jim stared at him with flat disbelief.

Bones flushed bright red. “Look, they’re Vulcans. Emotional management of others isn’t their strong point.”

“Bones, you couldn’t tell that sly old bastard a damned thing he hasn’t known ever since your parents were in diapers, and you ought to have the sense to know it!” Jim hissed, glancing around them to see who might be listening. “You shouldn’t get too cozy with that faction anyway; they aren’t in favor right now with the top brass. Admiral Marcus--”

“Wants a war with the damn Klingons.” Bones dropped his voice to a hiss. “And he’ll bust you back to Iowa corn farmer if you break his daughter’s heart, so if you think I’ve got a monopoly on dumb career decisions, you can just--”

“Good evening, gentlemen.” Spock’s cool tones interrupted the argument. “The reception is about to adjourn, Leonard, and I propose to accompany my father to a more private venue. Will you join us?”

“Sure, Spock.” McCoy deflated, but he noticed the way Jim’s jaw tightened at their casual use of proper names.

Spock apparently did not pick up on the subtle cue. “It is a pleasure to see you, Cadet Kirk. May I congratulate you on your selection of a companion for the evening?”

Kirk eyed him with something distinctly unpleasant simmering in his eyes. “Only if I can do the same.” His voice was as rude as McCoy had ever heard it. Spock raised one elegant brow at him and did not back down, not even a nanometer.

“Stop it, Jim.” McCoy laid a hand on Kirk’s bicep and leaned in close to his ear. “I don’t know what crawled up your ass and died, but we’ll talk later, OK? This isn’t the time.” He drew back and gave a polite nod to Carol Marcus, who had appeared on Kirk’s left side. 

“Are you attending the private event too?” As she addressed McCoy, her eyes had the particular twinkle of someone who’d seen Spock’s drawing hanging on Jim’s wall and wasn’t planning to let anyone forget it anytime soon. 

“Indeed,” Spock answered politely for them both. Bones sighed to himself at the thought of juggling Spock, Jim, and Ambassador Sarek all at the same time. Like the guy in the old movie said, this was a goddamn bitch of an unsatisfactory situation.

They followed the diplomats into a small anteroom. The place had a lower ceiling than the banqueting hall and was much more intimately lit, featuring deep, lush leather chairs scattered about the perimeter and discreet waiters bearing silver salvers of drinks and _hors d’oeuvres_. Ambassador Sarek stood in the far corner, _tete-a-tete_ with Christopher Pike, conversing seriously. Spock seemed content to drift without approaching him immediately, and McCoy followed suit. If Jim hadn’t been having such a snit, he’d have been glad his cadet uniform wasn’t the only one represented in the crowd. 

“There you are, Jim. Come on over, son. Someone I’d like you to meet.” Pike gave Jim a little smile and reeled him in with the professional ease of someone long-accustomed to glad-handing. Bones watched closely as Jim was introduced to Ambassador Sarek, managing to produce the ta’al on demand, a feat Bones himself couldn’t do without using two hands.

Ironically enough, Bones and Spock wound up being shunted in the other direction.

“Admiral Marcus,” Spock said politely as the tide of small talk washed them up at his feet. “Your speech was quite fascinating.”

“Commander Spock and Cadet McCoy.” Marcus’s smile had a knife-edge, and McCoy’s heart sank when he realized the man knew his name without being introduced. “So glad to see our Vulcan allies represented here tonight. We’ll need a concerted effort if we’re to defend the Federation, and the Vulcan voice carries a great deal of weight with the council. Vulcan is the least well-defended planet in the alliance; I’m sure you’re eager to remedy the situation. Earth will be pleased to help.”

“Vulcan’s defenses are perhaps not so few as you believe, Admiral.” Spock kept his tone perfectly polite. “Rather, let us agree they are not immediately apparent.”

“Minds and manpower only go so far, Commander, but together, we can certainly use them to prepare a more tangible front line for the defense of your planet.” Marcus smiled, warm, but his eyes remained frosty. “All of Starfleet is fortunate to have you as part of our organization, Commander, instead of you wasting away in a lab at the Vulcan Science Academy. How much more opportune for you to be able to lead galactic culture forward, than to spend your time in obscure research.”

“Indeed.” This time Spock’s response was immediate. “I am conscious of the gravity of my responsibility in this position, Admiral, and of the honor it is to be so placed. Rest assured, I do not take my responsibilities lightly.”

Marcus’s ice-chip eyes slid toward Bones, who forced himself not to say anything inflammatory, choosing instead to make a vague, polite murmur. 

“We’ll need the support of all our medical personnel, too,” Marcus said, unctuous, his eyes measuring Bones down to the last hair. “Your xenobiological expertise in particular, doctor.” 

“Medics are a particular necessity in times of war,” Bones said neutrally. If anything, Marcus’s eyes turned even colder; no subtlety was lost on him, that was for sure. 

“I was thinking more in terms of weaponizing your abilities, son.” 

“It’s too late for me,” Bones found himself against a line he wouldn’t cross. “I’m a licensed MD. I already took my Hippocratic Oath. You’ll want to focus on your younger military cadets for that, I think.” He felt Spock’s warmth close at his side, supportive. McCoy would bet his bottom dollar Spock regretted asking him at this point, but he wouldn’t back down.

“Of course.” Marcus’s eyes reached absolute zero.

“If you’ll excuse us, Admiral.” Spock led their not-quite-dignified retreat, and Bones realized he was sweating. He wanted a drink, but he didn’t dare have one. He settled for a canapé instead. 

“Well-handled,” Spock murmured, and Bones blinked, surprised by the compliment. 

“Yeah, well. I’m a doctor, not a diplomat.”

“You are also a doctor, not a weapon.” Spock’s voice was as dry with distaste as Bones had ever heard it. 

“A fact the Admiral would do well to remember.” Bones looked up at the calm tones, surprised to find Ambassador Sarek standing at his side. “I must echo my son’s judgment, doctor.” 

“Thank you, sir. I’m Leonard McCoy.” Embarrassed, he made the ta’al, left hand assisting his right. Gravely Sarek returned it. 

“Spock has told me of you.” Sarek inclined his head slightly into a polite half-bow. 

Great. Spock’d been telling his dad all about meeting a naked model in a live drawing class and making friends with him. It was all McCoy could to to maintain eye contact and look confident.

“Likewise, sir. But he didn’t need to tell me much about you. Everyone on Earth knows you by reputation. You’re one of the most respected ambassadors in the Federation, and it’s an honor to meet you.”

“I am sure my son has spoken well of me.”

McCoy was starting to be able to read Vulcans, so he sensed the sarcasm lurking behind the bland front and tried to step delicately around it. “As a man of medicine, I particularly appreciate Vulcan culture and its pacifistic teachings, sir.” He’d committed a few phrases to memory for just this sort of emergency. “The teachings of Surak echo my own philosophy in many ways. I particularly admire _'Nufau au sochya - yi dungi ma tu sochya,' 'Ri klau au ik klau tu,'_ and _'Tilek svi'khaf-spol t'vathu - tilek svi'sha'veh.'”_ He knew he was mangling the accent, but he did his best.

“The spear in the other’s heart is the spear in your own,” Sarek echoed.

“You are he,” McCoy capped the quote, looking the man straight in the eye. “I think we understand each other.”

“Indeed,” Sarek said, and McCoy sensed he’d won a point. 

“I look forward to conversing with you in a less... formal atmosphere, sir.”

“My son has proposed that we depart together for the purpose of further conversation. I find myself inclined to accept.” Sarek acquiesced, and glided away.

“That also went well,” Spock said, relief audible in his quiet words. “You repay my faith in you, Leonard.”

“Yeah, well.” McCoy caught a glimpse of Kirk eyeballing him from the other side of the room. “The night ain’t over yet.”

Despite McCoy’s pessimism, that was the worst of it. By the time the party wound down, Kirk had vanished with Carol Marcus, which lifted a weight off Bones’s mind. Sitting in a private air car with Sarek and Spock was almost a relief after the tense atmosphere of the cocktail party.

“Spock mentioned you’ve been working to counter the anti-militaristic sentiment growing in the Federation,” he broached the topic as delicately as he could, wanting to get right down to brass tacks.

“Indeed, doctor. My son mentioned your degree in psychology might provide authoritative insight into how best to do so.” Sarek seemed well-primed to hear his ideas.

“Well, I wouldn’t presume to teach my grandmother to suck eggs,” McCoy started, then explained himself. “That means I don’t know if an inexperienced country doctor like me can say anything a professional diplomat like you needs to hear. But I’ll share my insights, if you want them.”

Spock remained a quiet presence at one side as he and Sarek talked over human psychology, the mob mentality, and how to move the masses. 

“Further inquiry into this avenue of persuasion should prove productive,” Sarek decreed at last. “If you are willing, doctor, I would like to avail myself of your talents and your connections.”

“It would be my pleasure.” McCoy watched the elder Vulcan depart as the car reached his lodging. Bones was absolutely wrung out, sagging with exhaustion. 

He and Spock didn’t talk much as they walked themselves to the site-to-site transporter, and Spock accompanied him up in the turbolift to his room to see him off, giving him a polite nod. 

“I hope to see you again at our customary time on Saturday,” he said. “And I am sure my father will be in contact with you soon.”

“Yeah, sure.” McCoy yawned, his weariness catching up with him. All he wanted was bed. Hopefully Jim had taken Carol somewhere else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Ta'al_ : Vulcan salute, formed by raising the hand flat, palm out, and creating a separation between the second and third fingers
> 
>  _Nufau au sochya - yi dungi ma tu sochya_ : Offer them peace, then you will have peace.  
>  _Ri klau au ik klau tu_ : Do no harm to those that harm you.  
>  _Tilek svi'khaf-spol t'vathu - tilek svi'sha'veh_ : The spear in the other's heart is the spear in your own.


	9. Chapter 9

It turned out Jim hadn’t taken Carol anywhere at all; he was sitting on his bed alone waiting for Bones, fire in his eyes. 

“I hope you know what you’re getting yourself into, lining up with a faction like that.”

“I’d like to know why you aren’t getting into it yourself. Chris Pike obviously wants you on his side.” 

“So does Admiral Marcus, and he ranks Captain Pike. Why’d you make the choice you did? Just because of Spock?”

McCoy raised an eyebrow at Jim. If he’d smelled alcohol, he would’ve refused to talk, but Jim was stone cold sober. “I’m on whichever side doesn’t want people dead.”

“Have you ever heard that the best defense is a good offense?”

“Have you ever heard that taking offense leads to hostility?”

Jim neatly changed the subject. “You and the commander were pretty tight tonight. Cozy.”

“What the hell, Jim?” McCoy snapped. “You’ve had your shorts in a twist about Commander Spock ever since that night at the gallery-- and I wouldn’t ever have modeled for those drawings if you hadn’t conned me into that bet, so you don’t have a leg to stand on. I can be friends with two people at once, in case you haven’t noticed.” 

“Friends. Right.” Kirk shook his head. “You’re dating a damn alien.”

“That’s rich, coming from you. You’ve dated as many species as you’ve met!”

“Not quite.” Jim fixed him with a stern glare. “I never tried to make it with a Vulcan.”

“I’m not trying to make it with Spock.” McCoy resisted the impulse to fold his arms, knowing it would read as defensive body language. “He just likes to draw me.”

“Damn it, Bones, that’s just an excuse. I don’t know which of you needs the excuse more, but you’re definitely dating. You keep this up, you’re gonna get emotionally involved-- and he’s not capable of returning it.” 

“For the last time: we are _not. Dating.”_ Goddammit, he was about to lose his patience. 

“You are. He took you to Alcatraz the first time you went to his house. He took you to the Cetacean Institute in Sausalito the very next week. You spend time with him every damn weekend. He took you to the academic awards dinner tonight. You’ve met his father, Bones!”

“So what? So have you. And you and I go places, too; we spend time together a lot, but we’re not dating.”

“Maybe we should’ve been.” Jim didn’t look at him. 

“You’re outta your goddamn mind.” Bones sat up straight. “Are you honestly jealous? Jesus, Jim, if you want me to take you seriously when you say that, you could try not sleeping with six different women every week!”

“Only six?” Jim reared up, faking indignance at the accusation.

“Yeah, you usually take Sundays off.” They glared at each other, breathing hard, then Jim couldn’t help it anymore; he started laughing as he flopped back on his bed and pulled the covers up. 

“Have it your way, Bones. We’ve got finals coming up. You normally spend a lot of time in the library this time of year. You mind if I bring Carol over here sometimes? We don’t have a lot of places to go. I’ll hang a sock on our door.”

“Knock yourself out.” Whatever this was, it definitely wasn’t entirely resolved, not that easily, but Bones was too exhausted to chase the hydra down and kill all its heads. Not tonight, not now that Jim had let off giving him hell and started laughing again. He tossed off his uniform and flopped onto his own little mattress. 

Jim always snored a bit when he was asleep, but even though it took Bones a long time to doze off, he never heard that soft little flutter. 

*****

In spite of McCoy’s worries, things were better after that; Jim calmed down a lot, apparently having got the worst of his jealousy off his chest, and they went back to more-or-less normal until finals hit like a category 5 hurricane plowing ashore over St. Simon’s Island on the Georgia coast.

Bones spent so much time in the library over the next couple of weeks his ass took on the shape of one of the hard plastic chairs. As a med student, he had his own carrel where he could store his padds and research materials and even run a few very simple experiments, just as long as he didn’t try to bring in any any dangerous substances that would set off the scanners in the door. 

He was almost to the bottom of a 200-page article on xenobiological hemoglobin equivalents and their covalent bonding properties, cross-referenced to a variety of common drugs, when someone tapped at his door.

Spock.

“Hi, what’s up?” The commander hadn’t sought him out this way since that nice summer day on the quad, preferring prearranged meetings, so Bones was surprised to see him outside of their normal routine.

“I have come to the library six times this week to supervise the AI programming study group, and you have been here each time when I left, despite the lateness of the hour,” Spock said, quiet and precise. “This is an abnormal behavior pattern for you, Leonard. Are you experiencing friction with your roommate?”

“Nah. It’s finals week. I’m cramming. Jim knows it, and so he’s been… well, he’s been leaving the sock on the door.” Surely if Spock had spent any time at all in the dorms, he knew what that meant.

“This is a phenomenon I have often observed in the dormitory, but I am not certain of its significance.”

Bones sighed. “It means he has a girl in there, Spock. They’re having sexual relations, and they don’t want to be disturbed.” 

Spock tilted his head. “But the room is also yours, and you have a right to occupy it for purposes of rest and study.”

“I’d probably be in here studying anyway.” _Like Jim ought to be._ But the only test he was worried about was the Kobayashi Maru, and the grapevine insisted you just couldn’t study for that. 

“Adequate rest is required for peak performance on challenging examinations.”

“I’ll do fine.” 

“Do you require the library for study, or could you do so in a more comfortable and restful environment?”

“Is that a trick question?” Bones scrubbed at his weary eyes. “This chair is giving me arthritis in my ass.”

Spock raised a dubious brow at his self-diagnosis. “Then come with me. The quiet environment will facilitate your studies, and you will be more comfortable.” 

It occurred to Bones, too late, that Spock actually meant to take Bones home to stay in his apartment for the night, and he blinked a little.

“No way. I couldn’t impose like that.”

“There is no imposition, as I have a second futon and bedding stored in my closet. It can rapidly be deployed for your occupancy.”

“...No hanging any socks on the door, okay?” God he was tired, if his mouth was running away from him like that. 

“That was not my intention in asking you to accompany me.” Spock had his hands folded behind his back, excruciatingly proper. “I intended merely to offer a quiet place to study and rest, where the disposition of socks need not be a concern.”

Thinking of a hot cup of Vulcan tea and maybe a hummus and pita sandwich, Bones surrendered. He sighed acquiescence and started scooping up padds, loading his carry pack. 

They arrived without incident. The apartment was dark, lit only by the glow from the window overlooking the city and the reflection of moonlight diffusing off the fog that covered the bay. The beauty of it took Bones’s breath.

Spock turned the lights up and closed the shades, eliminating the surreal, romantic lighting and enclosing them instead in a spartan but familiar comfort. They hauled out the second bed and made it up. Then Spock started brewing tea while Bones made them both sandwiches. 

He cut up tomato and cucumber for toppings, then paused, knife halfway through chopping cilantro, which he didn’t even like. When had Bones learned exactly what Spock liked on his pita? When had it become natural to him to custom-make a sandwich for Spock? It didn’t matter, maybe. He plated the food and took his cup of tea, relaxing. After all, Spock knew by now precisely how much sugar he took. It was just a friend thing.

“I received the offer of a date today,” Spock announced out of nowhere soon after they sat to eat, and Bones blinked, nearly choking on his mouthful. He managed not to, but he couldn’t help sputtering a little. 

“Really? You? Not that it isn’t understandable; you’re an attractive guy.” He felt like an idiot. “Who was it? What’d you say?”

“I declined, of course.” Spock looked at him through inscrutable eyes, nearly black in the dim light. “It was a former student of mine, a communications major named Nyota Uhura.”

“So that’s her first name. Well, she’s a pretty one. Jim always had a thing for her when he was dating her roommate.” He wondered what Spock had told her when he said no.

“She was a most exceptional student, a highly qualified young woman of admirable intellect.” Spock made his tone say that ‘pretty’ wasn’t a consideration in his mind.

“Sounds like she ought to be right up your alley.”

“Perhaps, were circumstances different.” Spock hesitated, looking into his tea. “I told her I was already in a relationship.”

Bones blinked, panic and giddiness starting to wheel through him. “I, uh. You did?”

“Yes. I am betrothed.”

Bones eyed him, stunned by the news, his head spinning even more. The ballooning giddiness burst and vanished abruptly. “You’re what?”

“I have a betrothed wife on Vulcan. Our parents bonded us at the age of seven. Her name is T’Pring.”

That was a lot of information coming out of left field. Bones tried to assimilate it without displaying his distress. “An arranged marriage?”

“Such things are regarded as highly logical in Vulcan culture, eliminating the need for time-consuming courtships and reducing the likelihood of failure to marry and establish a stable household.”

“Ouch.” Bones got up with his tea and wandered over to the window, wishing he could look out at the bay. “So what happens if you don’t like each other after you grow up?” He wasn’t quite sure what he was feeling, other than ‘I just got hit in the small of the back by a shuttlecraft doing Mach 2.’

“The marriage bond could be dissolved, but that is rarely done. It is logical to accept one another and work cooperatively as partners.”

“Damn.” Bones shook his head, thinking back to all the snot-nosed little kids he’d known at seven. How the hell would he cope if he had to turn up in a church tomorrow and marry little Margie Sullins, with her bad temper and her skinned knees and her one wall-eye? Of course, nowadays a good ocular surgeon could fix the wall-eye. But nobody could cure bad temper, not without a lot of drugs. “You Vulcans have some pretty wild ideas by human standards, Spock.”

“Arranged marriages have maintained a prominent role in human history for thousands of years, and still occur in certain quarters even today.”

Bones shook his head again. “Progressive elements of human culture don’t support them anymore. I know I sure don’t.”

“That is understandable.”

Bones looked into his tea; there wasn’t much left, and the spices had collected in a ring around the bottom of the delicate china cup. He tipped his head back and swallowed them, grimacing at the pungent bitterness of the dregs.

“Do you love her? T’Pring, I mean.”

Spock regarded him for a long time over the rim of his own cup while Bones leaned against a support pylon between two window panes and refused to back away from the question. 

“No, I do not,” Spock said eventually, neglecting to elaborate on whether he held such feelings for anyone, or ever had. Or ever could. Maybe not; maybe he didn’t think he was allowed to. That made Bones feel terribly sad for him. Maybe Jim was right.

“Then don’t marry her. That’s my two cents’ worth.” He took his cup to the sink and washed it, gently setting it in the drainer. “Break it off as soon as you can. And the next time somebody you like asks you out for a date, go ahead and say yes. Or you should ask somebody out that you like. Do that with different people until you find somebody you actually want to live with. Then you should marry that person instead.” 

“A very human perspective.”

“You’re half-human, Spock. Even if you don’t let on.” Bones felt his stomach turning queasy; he shouldn’t have finished the tea. “Nobody’s holding a gun to your head, that’s my point.” He wrapped up the uneaten half of his pita sandwich and tucked it in the fridge. “Still, I’m no expert. I married somebody I loved, and you can see my divorce papers if you wanna know how well that turned out. Maybe your Vulcan logic works better after all.” He didn’t meet Spock’s quiet, sober gaze. “Do whatever’s right for you, Spock. Me, I’ve got to finish memorizing about six chapters of chemical interactivity factors for my xenobiology exam tomorrow.” 

The prospect of studying filled him with loathing, but hell, he was miserable anyway. He sat down on his bed with the padd, leaving Spock to consider his advice.

He was vaguely aware of Spock picking up his sketchbook and a pencil, settling in to watch him, but by this time he was so used to that it didn’t bother him at all.


	10. Chapter 10

When Bones woke up in the morning, Spock had plucked the padd from his sleeping fingers and laid it aside, then covered him warmly. A chrono sat on the floor next to his head, its chime gradually escalating; he had plenty of time to shower, get breakfast, and make it to his exam. Spock was nowhere to be found.

Bones got up, wrinkling his nose at his slept-in uniform, and shyly used Spock’s sonic shower. He thought about rolling the futon back up, but it was too heavy for him to manage on his own, so he settled for folding up the comforter and took his leftover pita along when he let himself out into the morning fog.

The exam went pretty well, and he had a spring in his step when he went out on the quad afterward. Jim sat waiting for him on the steps, crunching an apple. 

“You done with that exam?”

“Yeah.” Bones flopped down next to him, trying to bask in the watery sunlight. Mostly failing.

“You never came back last night. Find somebody to hook up with?”

“No.” Bones snorted. “I’m a damn monk, and you know it.”

Kirk just snorted back at him. “I wouldn’t believe that if I didn’t know who you were dating. Anyway, you can come back home tonight. Carol’s finished with her finals. Soon as I take my test, I’m gonna go off with her for the holiday.”

Bones blinked, surprised. “Really?”

“Yeah, her dad made a point of inviting me yesterday.” 

“I don’t trust that guy, Jim.”

“Yeah, I know, Bones.” Jim took another bite. “Don’t worry. He’s not gonna turn me into a warhawk over Christmas vacation.” He paused. “I’d like you to sit the Kobayashi Maru with me. I need a command crew.”

“I’m not command track. You don’t need a medical officer on the bridge.”

“You’re rated on the helm. Be my navigator.”

“I’m a shitty pilot, and you know it.”

“Like it’s gonna make a difference? It’s not even a real ship. Besides, it’s not your performance getting evaluated. It’s mine.” Jim gave him a lopsided grin.

“OK, fine. I’ll do it.” It was good to know Jim trusted him again, even if he was planning to vanish all Christmas instead of taking Bones back to Iowa like he had every other year. McCoy sighed a little. It wasn’t like he could go back to Georgia to spend the holiday with his family. He’d just have to hole up in his dorm, if it was even gonna be open.

Jim slapped him on the back. “Tomorrow, 11:00 hours. Be there with bells on.”

Bones saluted him, sarcastic. “Aye, captain.”

*****

The Kobayashi Maru was every bit the disaster of cadet legend, and Jim failed _spectacularly_ , never even managing to damage an enemy ship. He tried to take down some of the attackers, but they had tech that turned the phasers and torpedoes back against their point of origin, and all he achieved was the destruction of his own ship. Bones sprawled headlong and kept his head down after his panel shorted out and he was judged ‘dead;’ the smoke circulating in the air was pretty acrid, and he didn’t want to breathe any more of it than he could help. 

Scanning the bridge out of the corner of his eye, Bones realized everybody was down-- everybody but Jim, who was swearing like a sailor and furiously attempting to resurrect the helm controls even though the computer voice had already dispassionately announced that he was dead of oxygen deprivation. 

Jim caught his eye and scowled as Bones picked his head up off the helmsman’s leg. “Physician, heal thyself.”

“Is that all you’ve got to say? What’d you think of my performance?” Bones rolled lazily onto one side and grinned. He knew he probably ought to keep his mouth shut, but he just couldn’t leave well enough alone.

“I’m not a drama critic.” Kirk straightened up, trying to brush the soot off his uniform shirt as the simulator opened up, the crimson lights and the blaring klaxon fading. 

“Permission to re-sit the exam, sir,” Kirk snapped at the attending officer before anything else could be said. 

“Request noted.” The Andorian made a tick mark on his padd. “Your marks will be made available for review by noon tomorrow. Pending their release, we will schedule a hearing regarding a re-sit.”

Bones winced. He knew that look; Kirk was _livid_. 

It turned out Bones didn’t have to put up with Jim’s snit-fit for long. He was off for Canada with Carol before 15:00, leaving Bones custody of the curiously forlorn and empty dorm room. An electronic mail announced students were expected to vacate the premises by four on Friday. Thanks to Jim never telling him they wouldn’t be going to Iowa, Bones was way past the deadline date to apply for between-semester accommodations, but he figured he might as well give it a shot, so he headed off across the quad to see if he could spread a little Southern charm around the housing clerk’s office and get himself assigned a spare room. 

Unfortunately, she was out sick, leaving him to wander over to the cafeteria without arranging a place to stay. He could get a hotel room or find a sublet, maybe. It wasn’t peak season; there ought to be something.

“Leonard.” Spock appeared out of nowhere, beginning to make a habit of it. “I am gratified to find you. I checked Cadet Kirk’s exam results, and had anticipated the two of you would retreat to a bar together to commiserate.”

“Yeah, well, he went off to Canada with the Marcuses and left me here to cool my heels instead.”

Spock looked surprised. “Have you completed your examinations?”

“I have one more diagnostic practical in xeno, but it’s for a species that bleeds red; that’s practically human. It’s gonna be a breeze.”

“If you are at liberty, perhaps you would care to accompany me to dinner.” Spock sounded curiously hesitant. “I wish to patronize a restaurant that was recommended to me by Commodore Decker. It is apparently famed for a dish called ‘dim sum.’”

“Dim sum isn’t a dish. It’s all kinds of little appetizers. You get whatever you want delivered right to the table.” It sounded damn good, actually. “Some of the things are vegetarian, some aren’t. You oughtta be able to find something you want.”

“The Commodore assured me that ‘this is the place the Chinese people go to eat,’” Spock quoted. “Apparently that is intended as a glowing endorsement.”

“Usually it is, yeah-- and he’s not being racist, if that’s bugging you. Look at it this way. Would you wanna eat so-called Vulcan food from a place where Vulcans don’t ever go to eat? Of course not.”

“Excellent reasoning.” Spock quirked a brow, reminding McCoy of the unanswered inquiry.

“Sure, I’ll go with you.” His stomach growled out loud. “Just let me change out of this monkey suit first.”

“Very well.”

Spock accompanied him to his room, politely turning away while Bones changed, which seemed pretty illogical given how he’d already seen (and sketched) every bit of skin McCoy ever owned. Bones was grateful for the token privacy anyway and tried to get himself covered back up fast.

Spock spoke to him as he struggled with his T-shirt, tone quite serene. “You should pack supplies adequate to last the holiday before we depart, as the dormitories are closing tomorrow at four.”

Bones blinked at him, halfway through the head-hole. “Hm?”

“I am aware you have made no accommodation for on-campus lodging over the holiday. I assume from the annoyance in your tone when you spoke of his holiday with the Marcuses, you had planned to spend your vacation with Cadet Kirk.”

“Yeah, well, I.” Bones sputtered to a halt, yanking the shirt down to cover his belly and waving his hands in despair. “I’m not just gonna pile in on you, Spock!” The thought gave him a weird flutter of anxiety deep in his stomach. What if he snored? What if he spilled something? Spock’s place was so fucking tidy all the damn time… they’d drive each other crazy.

“Did you find your previous stay in my home unpleasant?”

“No, but--”

Spock just raised a brow at him. “Nor did I. The matter is settled.”


	11. Chapter 11

The dim sum restaurant turned out to be a little hole in the wall jammed with pleasant, smiling people speaking Chinese (at least, Bones assumed it was Chinese). They ordered hot jasmine tea, which Spock liked much better than Bones did, then started off with a course of taro dumplings for Spock and steamed pork buns for Bones.

The steamed pork buns smelled heavenly; he’d have to be careful not to eat them too fast and burn himself. 

“What’s wrong, Spock? Don’t like your taro?”

“I am inexperienced in the use of these eating utensils,” Spock said, awkwardly holding up the bamboo chopsticks he had extracted from their red paper packet. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to instruct me.”

“Oh. Yeah, it takes a little while to get used to those. Here.” Bones held up one of his own. “The key is remembering only one of them is supposed to move. You put the bottom one between your thumb and forefinger; the web of your thumb supports it. Brace it with your ring finger. The digitus annula’ris,” he clarified as Spock fumbled. “No, against the pad. Here.”

He reached out without thinking to adjust the position of the chopstick, his fingers arranging Spock’s, before he realized his _faux pas_. “Oh, shit, sorry!” He drew back in a fluster.

“I am not inconvenienced by your instruction.” Spock spoke quietly. “Please continue.” 

“Well, if you’re sure.” McCoy’s heart was beating hard; he could’ve cursed himself for his unthinking breach of etiquette. “Hold that still; the other one moves. You’ve got to get some leverage on it, and you bring it down against the first one to pick things up, like a pincer. I like to hold it against my first two fingers with my thumb, like this.” He demonstrated, levering the stick up and down. “Keep the tips even and it works better.”

Once again he dared to reach out and adjust Spock’s grip, trying to touch him as little as possible, uncomfortably aware of Spock’s dark-eyed gaze resting on their hands as Bones touched him. The Vulcan’s skin was very hot and quite dry. Bones forced himself not to linger. “There, you’ve got it. There’s a learning curve; experts can even use these things to eat rice. I’m not that good unless the rice is pretty sticky.” He drew back and picked up his own chopsticks. “Of course, in Chinese culture, it’s also considered acceptable to pick the dish off the table and bring it near your mouth when you’re doing that. We can ask for a fork if you want.”

“I prefer to master this skill,” Spock declined, and began trying to maneuver one of the taro dumplings to his mouth using the chopsticks. 

“It’s considered impolite to actually skewer the food,” Bones warned him, apologetic. “Pretty illogical.”

Spock nodded absently, absorbed in working on his technique.

The pork buns melted in Bones’s mouth, making him sigh with bliss. The various flavors of shumai were excellent, too. He spared Spock the sight of him devouring chicken feet, but he didn’t turn down much else; by the time he was done, he was stuffed to the brim and didn’t even have room left over for wine. Spock had developed a pretty good mastery of the craft of eating with chopsticks and made a point of finishing off the rice with the bowl still on the table. Bones charitably neglected to point out that he was picking up the last grains one at a time.

“The next time I hear about a famine, I’m gonna feel guilty as hell.” He leaned back and wiped his lips with a napkin. Spock looked on him with something suspiciously similar to an indulgent light in his eye. “I think I just ate enough for five people.”

“I believe at least nine humans would be adequately sustained for the next eight hours by your evening’s caloric intake.”

“I’ll just have to get a lot of exercise over the holiday.” Bones sighed, unable to feel annoyed enough to rise to the obvious bait. 

“Leonard,” Spock hesitated for a moment. “I have been considering your advice, and have concluded you are correct regarding the severance of my bonding to T’Pring and the annulment of our arranged marriage. I have consulted her regarding the matter, and she is in agreement. Would you be willing to accompany me to Vulcan over the holiday? It is my right to bring a friend to act as a witness in such matters.”

McCoy blinked at Spock in surprise, feeling a strange prickle at the corners of his eyes when Spock spoke the word ‘friend.’ Hell, Spock had already said as much. He needed to stop being stupid.

“I’d be honored, Spock.” He tried to sound cavalier about it, but he was pretty sure he failed. The words set him in turmoil, and he regretted offering up his well-intended advice. This was a lot more life-shattering change than he was comfortable with feeling responsible for. He’d tossed off all that lofty-sounding bullshit in the heat of the moment, entranced with his own eloquence. Now Spock was rebuilding his life around it?

“We will depart after your final examination. I will arrange for our transport after we return to my apartment.”

“Do I need any special clothes or anything?”

“Your casual clothing or your cadet uniforms should suffice for most situations. We are much of a size; should there be a need, you may borrow some of mine.”

“Spock.” Leonard hesitated. “Be absolutely sure first.”

“I am certain.” Spock’s eyes looked almost warm. Or maybe he was imagining things.

“Divorce is a big deal.”

“Socially, this is a significant step for me,” Spock acknowledged. “But personally, it does not have the same emotional ramifications I believe it may have had for you.”

Bones thought of his baby daughter, off God knows where with her mother, and sighed. “You’re probably right.” 

It was difficult to throw off his presentiment of looming disaster as they left the restaurant, choosing to walk back to Spock’s apartment rather than look for the nearest site-to-site, which was several blocks in the wrong direction. Making the climb on a full stomach made Bones huff and puff, but it was good for him, and his abdominal discomfort had improved by the time the building came in sight. Spock seemed pensive, not talking much, his hands neatly clasped behind his back.

McCoy let himself wonder for a moment what Spock might’ve sensed when he’d touched him. Touch telepaths didn’t like casual contact because they invariably picked up unwanted emotional impressions and thoughts from it. What did Bones have in his mind that Spock wouldn’t want to hear about?

He flushed. A lot of things, probably, some of which he didn’t let himself think aloud. He only hoped he hadn’t been thinking of any of them right then.

When they went into the apartment the sun was setting, and Spock didn’t turn on any lights. Bones went to sit in front of the window, watching the sunlight fade out of the sky as the city illumination came up. His padd was enough to see by, and as he reviewed for his last exam, he knew Spock was drawing him again, sitting nearby in the dim room. His pencil scratched, familiar and soothing. 

Bones couldn’t really focus on the material; he had too much on his mind.

It was time to think about what Jim had been saying all along. Time to think about it very seriously, in fact. Because Bones had a way of lying to himself, lying to everybody really, and that might just wind up hurting people this time. People who didn’t deserve it. People he loved. Why did it always have to be like that? If it was just him, he could live with it. 

_Spock, do you think we’re dating?_ The question lingered on his tongue, tingling with implications. He very nearly asked it a dozen times as he sat there. He didn’t, because if he did, he might learn the answer. He didn’t know what would be worse-- a yes or a no. Because if they were dating, then Spock had been seeing him behind his betrothed wife’s back… and was about to get divorced. For Bones. And if they weren’t…. 

Leonard felt his throat close up. Of course they weren’t. How stupid did a guy have to fucking be? God, he’d always had an ego the size of a planet. Maybe second only to the magnitude of Jim Kirk’s. Spock was a Vulcan, for fucksake. Vulcans didn’t fall for people. 

As for Bones, sure, Spock was attractive. Bones liked him. A lot. ...OK, fine. Way too much. But obviously he wasn’t even ready to think seriously about dating again after the goddam divorce. Developing a crush on somebody was just a natural part of being on the rebound. Spock was just a friend, that’s all, just like Jim, and he’d do damn well to remember that. It was the old problem with misreading subliminal, subvocal cultural cues, that’s all it was. He had to keep reminding himself that when it came to Spock those were all fucked to hell a thousand different ways. Nothing Leonard had learned from a lifetime spent interacting with other humans could be applied here; this was a fucking alien. 

How many psych texts had he studied? Always warning him you couldn’t count on your gut instinct to guide you accurately with extraterrestrials and their body language, their social behaviors, their nonverbal messages. You had to talk things out. Even that didn’t always get accurate results. Spock probably couldn’t read him worth a damn, either. That’s just how it was when you tried to interact socially with aliens. 

He should ask, now, before he got himself in any deeper. But the words were too heavy on his tongue, and he couldn’t stand to know the truth, so he held them inside and kept turning the pages on his padd so Spock wouldn’t get suspicious. 

He was the only one who had feelings involved here. If he kept his mouth shut, he was the only one who’d get hurt. If he kept his mouth shut, maybe he could process the emotions and get rid of the unwanted ones by himself. That way he wouldn’t have to ruin the friendship. 

_Better this way._

He waited to move until after Spock finished drawing him and began to prepare for bed, watching Spock’s reflection in the glass of the window as he moved about the room, putting away his sketching materials, tidying away a few dishes, removing his shoes. Then, incredibly, Spock stripped until he wore only a form-fitting pair of sleek black undershorts. His back gleamed in the pale light from the window. Beautiful, powerful musculature. Long, strong legs. A luscious, taut, well-rounded ass that just begged to be cupped in a lover’s palms. Deceptively reminiscent of a human, deceptively inviting. Every bit of it so strictly off-limits Bones might as well have been on the other side of the Neutral Zone. 

_Jesus Christ, when did I get it this bad?_ Bones swallowed thickly, his throat dry. _Why did it have to be so late before I admitted it to myself?_ A goddamned Vulcan? Of all the stupid things he’d ever let himself do, this was the dumbest. He should’ve listened to Jim trying to warn him. He should’ve run screaming as far and as fast as it took. 

He owed Jim a hell of an apology. Bastard was gonna get stuck picking up the pieces, after all. Might as well acknowledge he’d been right all along. 

He tapped out a quick text to Jim. _Fuck me, you’re right about Spock. I’m in way over my head._ Then he sent it without letting himself pause to reconsider. 

Spock lay down and went still. 

Leonard made himself sit there for another half-hour, flipping aimlessly through unread pages before he stood up, his joints crackling, and went to his own bed. He took off his shoes and his belt, but only loosened his jeans before lying down and turning his back to Spock. 

_Sometimes I hate being right,_ Jim’s response dinged in a minute later. _You OK?_

_For now. Talk to you after New Years’._

_Hang in there. Be careful, Bones._

Yeah. Hang in there and be careful all the goddamned way to Vulcan and back. All the way through meeting Spock’s betrothed fiancee (ex-wife?) and his dear, saintly mama. He was so screwed. 


	12. Chapter 12

Bones was lucky his exam was on a red-blooded species, just like he’d predicted it would be; his head wasn’t in the game and he nearly missed the indications of conjugate gaze palsy, but he brought it in just under the wire, prescribed the correct treatment, and fled with his A-.

Spock was waiting for him outside the examination room, carrying both their bags. Bones took his own and followed Spock to the site-to-site, wincing when he realized they’d have to shuttle up to space-dock. Of course they had to fly to get to Vulcan; he wasn’t an idiot. He just hadn’t been thinking far enough ahead.

He managed to suffer in silence, enduring the mind-crushing terror of launch and then the lesser panic attack that came along with docking, but he was sweaty and tense when they disembarked, and Spock looked at him with some vague analog of concern.

“I hate small-craft flying. Medium craft flying. Large craft flying. ...Flying.” Bones shuddered. 

Spock raised a brow, but spared him the inevitable remark about having chosen a career in Starfleet. An hour later they were settled aboard a courier ship bound for Vulcan, and Bones had the window turned off in their tiny cabin so he wouldn’t have to look out at the warp bubble.

“You should tell me about etiquette stuff I need to know,” he suggested to Spock. “I don’t want to walk in and insult your family matriarch right off the bat.”

“There is hardly any way that can be avoided,” Spock confessed. “Your humanity will be sufficient provocation by itself.”

Bones raised a brow at him. “That doesn’t sound very logical.”

“I have never explained to anyone why I chose not to attend the Vulcan Science Academy,” Spock said, apparently apropos of nothing. 

McCoy gave him a noncommittal nod; he was listening. 

“Racial prejudice is not logical, but it is as prevalent on Vulcan as it is on Earth, and on the Klingon home world, and in any other place that supports sentient life.” Spock met his gaze quietly. “I refused my appointment to the academy after the conferring official praised me for overcoming the dual handicap of my human blood and my mother’s human influence.”

McCoy’s eyes went wide. “Shit.”

“As you say.” Spock’s voice sounded dry. “I thought Starfleet, though predominantly human, featured inclusive policies indicating it might be superior to a more insular and isolated school in that regard, and in policy and practice, the organization has met my expectations thus far. Individuals, however, are frequently another matter.”

“Damn, Spock.” McCoy swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

 _“Kaiidth,”_ Spock spoke softly. “What is, is.”

“No wonder you’re so-- well. I was gonna say pissed off at. Disapproving of?-- Admiral Marcus.” 

“Your initial word choice is perfectly accurate, if crude.” 

This time Bones was sure of the anger he saw in Spock’s eyes, and he felt a strange tingle run through him. Spock had confessed to actually feeling a real fucking human emotion, and the significance of that admission had more far-reaching consequences than McCoy could fathom. Could it mean he might even--

Goddammit, here Spock was baring his private anguish over being a victim of fucking institutionalized racism, and all McCoy could do was try to figure out if that meant he had a shot at getting laid. Fuck that. Spock’s feelings needed to come first, since he apparently had some after all.

“We can’t change her mind about humans, but we can go a long way toward making sure she hasn’t got a leg to stand on.” He grinned at Spock, predatory. “Teach me how to act like a perfect little Vulcan. We’ve got three days.”

*****

They had three days, but three years probably wouldn’t have helped McCoy be entirely ready for Vulcan. Stepping out into the hot, dusty air, Bones gazed up at the red sun as he struggled to breathe and walk comfortably against the 1.4 gravity. He decided wet, swampy Georgia heat maybe wasn’t so damn miserable after all. Not even if it meant you had palmetto bugs lurking in your closet. He’d had a few damn good conversations with those things, growing up. 

The steely towers of a city loomed in the middle distance, but they had landed on the very outskirts, between its suburbs and a vast expanse of unpopulated desert. 

A welcoming committee stood by the landing pad: two stony-faced male Vulcans draped in heavy robes, awaiting parcel deliveries, and a slight woman, identifiable as human by her wide smile. She hastened forward, sweeping Spock into a warm embrace.

“Spock!” She kissed his cheek eagerly, making both McCoy’s brows shoot up to his hairline at the open demonstration of affection. 

“Mother. It is agreeable to see you.”

“Spock. It’s been six years!” 

“Five years, ten months, seventeen days, and--”

“Spock.” She shushed him, one hand over his mouth. “If you aren’t going to tell your mother you love her, then will you at least introduce me to your traveling companion?”

“Indeed. Mother, this is Leonard Horatio McCoy of Earth, a native of the state of Georgia, of whom I have communicated previously. He is a certified medical doctor and a cadet at Starfleet Academy, one semester from graduation. His credentials are admirable; he maintains a 4.0 GPA in dual majors of xenobiology and psychology, and is first in his class. Leonard, this is my mother, Amanda Grayson.”

“Spock!” McCoy burst in, stopping him, laughing. “She doesn’t want a comprehensive dossier. You can call me Leonard, ma’am.” He extended a hand to her, confident it would be welcome; sure enough, she seized it with gusto. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Leonard.” Her hand was small, with delicate bird-like bones, but she gripped him firmly and her eyes were direct above her mischievous smile as she gave him a thorough once-over. He could tell already he was going to like her. “You’re wrong about the dossier, though. I’m very curious about you.” 

“Oh?” He put on the charm, offering her his elbow; she accepted, tucking her hand into its angle. Spock led them toward a nearby structure, modern metal and transparent aluminum married seamlessly to ancient carved stone. 

“Yes. Spock rarely visits home, and he has never brought a friend along before.” 

Leonard frowned to hear that; the flicker of her eyes said she’d caught him at it. “Well, I’m honored. I’m sure I’ll start a trend. Your son is very well-regarded at the academy.”

“I would love to hear all about it.” She patted his wrist. 

“I’m gonna dish the dope on you, Spock,” Leonard warned. Not that he had much to tell. “You shouldn’t have let me see you living the high life.”

“You may indeed choose to share your observations. I, in turn, have brought a comprehensive record of my sketches and am in a position to disclose their contents privately.” Spock seemed absolutely unperturbed.

Bones leaned in toward Amanda and spoke in a stage whisper. “We met in a life-drawing class and I was the model, so he’s got me there. He always wins. ...This is probably one of the big reasons why he doesn’t bring home many friends.” 

Her laughter was clear and unrestrained, ringing in the dim stone corridor as the airlock door shut the heat and dust out behind them. 

They arrived at a cozy seating area, and Amanda fussed around, ensuring everyone was comfortable before she took her own chair. “Why have you come home, Spock?” She seemed to understand Spock would have to have more of a motive for coming home than just seeing family. 

“I have come to a decision regarding a personal matter that should have been resolved before I went offworld.”

McCoy watched Amanda stiffen. “Your betrothal? Have you come to formalize the marriage?”

“I have come to dissolve it.”

Amanda blinked at him, her eyes large and liquid. “Would you be willing to share your reasons?”

“Allowing the contract to endure does a disservice both to T’Pring and to myself.” He stood very straight, staring directly ahead. “I do not love her, and I wish to explore a more congenial alternative to the arranged relationship.”

McCoy saw tears well in Amanda’s eyes, threatening to overflow.

“Your father and I disagreed over whether to create a marriage contract for you when you were seven, Spock. This was foremost among the reasons I resisted it.”

“The error will soon be rectified.” Spock’s voice softened. “As it is to be done before the consummation of the marriage, I trust it will not cause lasting harm on either side.”

“Your father will not approve.”

“I am aware.”

Amanda’s gaze flickered over to McCoy. “Thank you for standing with my son at this difficult time.”

“As I said to Spock when he asked, it’s my honor to do so.” He might have squirmed with embarrassment if he’d been less well-trained by his mama. “I appreciate your hospitality, ma’am.”

“Amanda, please.” She squeezed his arm. “Let me show you to one of our guest rooms. You can freshen up and rest for a while; the higher gravity can be taxing at first.”


	13. Chapter 13

The guest room Bones settled in was located not too far from the family rooms, maybe so he could go and find Spock without too much trouble if he wanted. The compound was a veritable maze, and though the living quarters were elevated so inhabitants could enjoy the spectacular desert view, he figured a big chunk of the place, especially the older portion, extended underground. He didn’t want to risk getting lost among endless dusty catacombs.

He washed his hands and his face but decided not to shower; they hadn’t been out in the heat for very long. Spiking up his hair with a little water, he went to the window and looked out over the desert. It looked harsh and unforgiving, nothing but red and dun rock, dust, and hazy red sky as far as the eye could see. Nothing green anywhere. 

A chime on his door heralded Amanda’s arrival; she smiled at him. “I hope I’m not intruding. I must admit to a bit of subterfuge in this, but I wanted to talk to you alone, away from Spock.”

Bones gave her a sidelong grin. “I can understand that, I suppose. You want me to spill my guts about Spock. Well, if you don’t mind looking at a few sketches of me in the altogether, I guess I can accommodate you.” He ushered her in. That wasn’t all she wanted; she probably wanted to figure out if he was good enough to be friends with her precious baby boy. 

“Take a seat, won’t you?” He ushered her toward the room’s most comfortable chair. “If I had some tea, I’d offer you a cup.”

“No, no, I’m the hostess here,” she smiled. “I’m fine. I should warn you, for purposes of fair disclosure, Spock has already sent me reproductions of numerous sketches, including several of the sort you mentioned.” Her eyes twinkled at him. 

“Uh-huh.” Bones managed not to blush, but it was a near thing. “He’s got quite a talent.” 

“He could have been an artist. Or a musician. Anything he set his mind to, really. I know most mothers believe that about their children, but Spock is different.”

“Yeah, he’s… special.”

“He says you haven’t looked at his work since the gallery show.” She paused. “He believes he embarrassed you too much then for you to want to see any more.”

“Well. If you saw some of those, I guess you know why I found them embarrassing.” It made him very uncomfortable to discuss them with Amanda. “Nobody else's looked anything like that. My roommate, James Kirk, got Spock to give him one of them and put it up on our wall just to get under my skin. I did the modeling because I lost a bet with Jim, you know. I was pretty embarrassed by the whole arrangement, if you want to know the truth. But Spock had a different level of talent from everybody else, and the things he did with what he saw, well, they startled me at first. I’m not the kind of guy who wanders around letting people draw me naked just for kicks.”

“Spock has made that clear.” She smiled a little. “But I believe it’s possible you should look at his work again sometime. You might find it illuminating.”

“I glanced at a thing or two while he was drawing it.” Just the one of him holding the mug, really, the study of his hands. “They looked pretty good.”

“Spock is obviously very fond of you.” Her voice did not insinuate, but he could perceive the depth of her curiosity.

McCoy flushed. “Yeah, well, he’s lonely. He doesn’t socialize much.”

“No. He pursues his work instead.”

“Yeah, he does that. He’s in line to make captain in a couple of years, I hear. They’re gonna put him on board the Enterprise under Chris Pike as science officer for a little while, then kick him up the ladder.”

“Spock doesn’t have any particular desire to command.” She smiled at him. “And he does not respond well to being kicked.”

“I’ll just bet he doesn’t.” 

“You’re good for him.” Amanda changed the subject with uncomfortable speed. “You’ve let him express a side of himself he doesn’t indulge very often. I’m grateful for that. I think he is, as well.” 

“I’m good for him?” Bones made a wry face. 

“Yes.” She smiled a little, encouraging. “I stopped by to see him before I came here to you. He said you persuaded him to annul his marriage.”

Bones winced. “Yeah, about that… I’m not sure I should’ve meddled. I was running my mouth about something that wasn’t any of my business.”

“You’ve helped him make a hard choice. I believe it’s a good one.” Amanda looked troubled. “T’Pring would not be a very suitable match for Spock, I’m afraid. I’ve watched her grow up. She’s become very proud and very cold. I’m quite sure she has a lover; she would take advantage of Spock’s name and his property and keep her lover with her while he remained in space except for-- well. Except for the rare occasions when he was forced to come home. She would be a source of vexation and shame to him, and she would use him without qualm.”

McCoy grimaced, thinking of Jocelyn. “Yeah, that kind of thing does a number on your self-esteem. I can tell you that from experience. Better to be apart than live with that.”

“I’m sorry.” She laid a hand over his. “He told me you were divorced, with a small daughter you rarely see.”

Bones covered his surprise; he’d never told Spock about Joanna. “He’s done his homework, I’ll give him that.” He was still chewing over the radical idea that Vulcans actually took lovers. The whole concept seemed emotional as hell. Did they… _**like** having sex?_ The possibility boggled his mind. “Amanda… ma’am. This business about Vulcans not having any emotions. How true is that?”

She smiled at him, her face crinkling with laugh lines. “I think you’re already discovering that answer for yourself.” 

“They do. They just refuse to do anything about it…?” he ventured, tentative. 

“Unless the circumstances are precisely right.” She nodded, patting his hand. “And then you’ll find their emotions run very deeply indeed.”

He took a deep breath and nodded. “Thanks.” 

“Don’t mention it.” She stood up. “Come on; it’s nearly time for dinner. I’ll give you the grand tour; we’ll finish up at the dining area. Spock will join us there.”

He followed her obediently, wondering how she’d ever come to marry Sarek and how she managed to be so happy here in the harsh red desert among its equally forbidding natives. 

“I’ve rather selfishly chosen to seclude us while Spock is here, Leonard; I hope you don’t mind. Several of Sarek’s relatives have families within the compound, but this area is our family’s alone.” She restrained the tour to the upper floors of the building, including the family quarters: their living area, Spock’s father’s stunning library, and a beautiful conservatory full of trailing tropical plants and flowering orchids, the air mildly warm and blissfully wet after the bone-dry atmosphere in the rest of the house. Bones stood amidst the faint haze of mist, gazing up at the glass windows, and felt ridiculously happy. 

“I have species here from all over Federation space. Spock says whenever he is assigned to a ship, he’ll collect more for me.” She smiled fondly, and Bones realized her son was one of the keys to her happiness. Spock must spend a great deal of time in correspondence with her. 

“I guess Spock comms you regularly.”

“When he’s planetside, he does.” She smiled. “And when he’s shipboard, he records daily messages, then sends them as he’s able. He’s very considerate that way. We tell each other what we’ve accomplished each day. His calls have been much more interesting of late. He told me the two of you visited a prison, an aquarium, numerous museums… he said your friend was occupying your room selfishly, to the detriment of your studies.”

“Um. Yes.” Bones rolled his eyes. “Jim didn’t mean anything by it. I usually stay up cramming for finals toward the end of the semester anyway. Jim’s a good guy, really. Just got too much testosterone. You know how guys of a certain age get? He’s worse than some because he’s handsome enough to get whoever he wants. It's worse because he hated his stepfather. The guy was a tyrant, all iron hand in spiked glove. Jim’s still acting out, but he's a brilliant man and a good friend. He's saved my bacon a lot of times; I've always returned the favor.”

“Is Jim jealous of your friendship with Spock?”

Bones noticed the keenness of her gaze. “A little, yeah, but he’s got so many girlfriends he doesn’t have time to complain much about it.”

“Spock believes him to be very jealous indeed.”

Bones sighed. “He’ll come around when he realizes I’m not gonna abandon him just because I’ve made a new friend. I think he’s already starting to relax; he’s acting normal around me again. Getting him used to Spock might take a little longer.” Damned if he was gonna tell her what Kirk said about how he and Bones should’ve dated. Damned if he was gonna tell anybody at all about that.

“Tell me about Spock, Leonard,” Amanda asked, her voice soft. “I receive his daily summaries, but the only time I get any insight into his feelings is when he speaks of others. How does he live? Is he happy?” 

Bones shrugged; he actually felt a little cross with Spock for telling his mother so much; there wasn’t anything left for Bones to spill.

“He doesn’t tell me about his feelings, either. He’s got a nice place. He says he lived in the dorms till he graduated, but you can’t tell me he was a good fit for dorm life. Now he’s got a pretty apartment. It’s up on a hill. Best view of 'Frisco I ever saw; I could sit there by the window with a cup of tea and look out at the bay for hours. He doesn’t have a lot of furniture, though. Doesn’t seem to care about how the place looks. All he has out is what he’ll use. He has a few spare pieces stored away; he’s let me use a few of them when I’m over.” Bones hesitated. “I think he’s embarrassed about the apartment; he told me Sarek procured it for him, and he practically apologized for how nice it was.”

Amanda smiled, but her eyes were sad. “They both have strong personalities.”

“And that leads to conflict. Yeah. I’ve met your husband. He seemed just like Spock, really. Brilliant and absolutely focused.” Leonard shrugged a little, discomfited, and continued. 

“Spock lives like a monk, if you want to know the truth. He goes to school, teaches classes, leads study groups, evaluates student work. Sometimes he eats in the cafeteria. Then he goes home and reads and programs his computer simulations and does I don’t know what. Usually when I’m around, he’s busy drawing. He makes a mean cup of tea. He likes pita bread with hummus and salad. I brought him dolmades once and he liked eating those with tzatziki. But he usually seems to eat just to keep himself going.” Bones paused, considering what else he might say. “When we’re together, it gives him an excuse to get out. I think he likes boats. Both times we’ve been on a ferry, he wanted to go up to the top level and stand at the rail like he was king of the world. Wouldn’t come in even when it got foggy; I was half afraid he’d get hypothermia on me.”

“He can regulate his body temperature to resist extremes for a time.” Amanda smiled at him. “But I personally appreciate your concern. Vulcan males think they’re stronger than they are; then they’re surprised when they can’t perform miracles.” 

“He says he thinks he could’ve broken out of Alcatraz and lived to tell the tale,” Bones chuckled, forgetting for a moment where he was. “He said he-- well. Had experience getting out of tight spots.” He finished lamely and flushed with guilt, remembering himself almost too late.

“His father did not want him to leave Vulcan.” Amanda’s smile turned sad. “I didn’t either, I confess, but I knew he needed to.”

“Yeah. And I didn’t want to leave Joanna, but I had to.” Bones smiled at her, wry. “Sometimes we have to do things we don’t like-- including letting go of our kids.”

“Precisely.” She guided them around a corner. “Here’s the dining area. Spock! You’re early.” She went in and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. 

“I didn’t know your mother was an orchid-keeper, Spock.” 

“Leonard loved the conservatory,” Amanda reported, smiling. “You should draw him in it, looking up at the sky.”

“That would be a satisfying endeavor.”

“Satisfying, wow!” Bones teased him a little. “Take the man home, and all of a sudden he gets downright demonstrative.”

Spock raised a brow at him. “Compared to our agenda for tomorrow, I believe you, too, would find it preferable. I must meet with my clan matriarch, T’Pau, who will ascertain my seriousness and evaluate my motives for the annulment. Pending her approval,” Spock’s voice went steely, and McCoy somehow doubted she would be allowed to withhold it, “I will then proceed to the ceremonial grounds for the annulment. I hope you will join me there, Leonard, to witness the dissolution of the bond.”

McCoy nodded firmly. “Wild horses couldn’t keep me away, Spock.”

“Do you think T’Pau will approve of the dissolution?” Amanda sounded anxious.

“Indeed, mother, I believe she will.” Spock steepled his fingers. “I can summarize her reason for acquiescence in a single word.”

“And that would be?”

“Stonn.”

Amanda bowed her head to hide the grief that tugged at her expression. “I thought perhaps you weren’t aware of T’Pring’s relationship with him.”

“I have been aware of it since I was a teenager, mother. I must confess, the knowledge has allowed me a certain minor latitude in my own recent conduct.”

Amanda’s eyes darted to McCoy, and he flushed, unsure how he should respond to that. 

“Perhaps so,” Amanda said, “But she is the one who has dishonored her clan by breaking her vow.”

“Indeed. That is precisely why T’Pau will wish to prevent her from associating herself with our family.”


	14. Chapter 14

In the end McCoy found the Vulcan divorce ceremony a bit anticlimactic. He was never sure whether T’Pau didn’t know how to speak Standard or whether she was just too haughty to change her syntactic patterns, but her archaisms grated on his ears. 

Bones managed to behave himself adequately as the annulment proceeded, he and Spock standing on one side of the pillared arena and T’Pring and her associates on the other. T’Pau registered a formal inquiry into the reasons why Spock had brought an outworlder, the other Vulcans did a lot of tambourine-rattling and chanting, then Spock stepped forward and there was incomprehensible business with gongs and hammers and shouting. In the end Spock and T’Pring knelt before T’Pau, who put one long-clawed hand on either face and muttered for a while in Vulcan, then pronounced the bond severed.

McCoy waited through it all patiently, refusing to fidget, and wondered if the place was oriented toward the solstices like Stonehenge. The big brazier of glowing stones in the center seemed permanent; maybe it was fired by natural gas or something. 

He wondered which one Stonn was, or if he was there at all. He decided after a while that T’Pring’s lover had to be the big stupid-looking guy with the narrow chin and the sulky, constipated look. He followed her around like a pet puppy on a leash, and McCoy privately and rather uncharitably judged he wouldn’t have looked at Stonn twice unless he was hunting a guy to bring to a fraternity pig-party.

T’Pring was way out of Stonn’s league, McCoy thought-- or maybe Stonn was just easy to push around and had a lot of money. No way of telling. 

“Now thee may bond with whoever thee may choose,” T’Pau told Spock when he stood. “And may thee choose thy mate well.” 

“Live long and prosper, T’Pring,” Spock said, giving his former wife the formal salute of the ta’al, but she ignored the gesture, looking straight past him at McCoy. Her eyes narrowed and she spoke a long, liquid string of Vulcan, her face perfectly expressionless, but he saw Spock’s shoulders tense and his face went stony. Bones knew whatever she’d said couldn’t have been very complimentary to either of them.

Spock answered her with cold restraint, stepping between them, and Bones raised his eyebrows, glancing aside at Stonn, who just stood there looking like a stuffed rodent of some kind. Maybe a groundhog. 

“Enjoy your girlfriend for all she’s worth, Stonn,” McCoy said, deliberately cheerful. “On Earth we’ve got a saying: ‘Good riddance.’ We’ve got a nice, polite parting gesture of our own, too.” He flipped T’Pring the one-fingered salute. Spock’s brow rose until it nearly vanished under his hairline, but he did not demur.

They departed in separate directions, and Spock seemed relaxed with the outcome, eating with good appetite when they returned to sit down with Amanda for the evening meal. 

Bones felt rather less contented; the long, stressful day out in the baking sunshine had been too much for him. His stomach rebelled so badly at the thought of food he could hardly eat any of Amanda’s carefully-prepared Vulcan cuisine, and he was forced to excuse himself before the end of dinner. 

“I’m sorry. The gravity’s getting to me, or maybe it’s the thin air. Plus I think I got a little too overheated this afternoon. I’ll go give myself a dose of tri-ox and lie down for a while; I'll drink some water and be just fine.” 

He retreated to his room and stripped down to his boxer shorts, opening one of the louvered windows, sitting in an armchair by the opening and gazing out into the sere, empty desert with a cold glass of water at his elbow. As the sun sank the thin air turned quite cool, and soon he shut the window again, then lay down, staring up at the ceiling. He labored for every breath he took; the gravity pressed down on his chest like a lead weight. 

Spock was divorced now; he was free. He could date anybody he wanted-- he could do anything he wanted. 

McCoy’s head swam as if the Vulcan sun were still beating down on the crown of his head. Spock was free. What would he choose to do about it? McCoy couldn’t even begin to guess. He shouldn’t treat it as grounds for hope. He _shouldn’t._

His door chimed, and he grunted a response; it slid open, admitting Spock. 

McCoy straightened up, feeling absurdly shy without all his clothes on, but he made himself brazen it out. 

“I came to see if your condition has improved, Leonard.”

“I’m feeling a lot better.” He pulled the duvet casually over his legs. “Just needed to cool off a little, that’s all.”

“That is reassuring.” Spock paused; McCoy could tell something troubled his mind.

“What is it, Spock?”

“We are fortunate the ceremony did not include the _kah-if-far_ , the challenge,” Spock told him soberly. “I would not have cared to fight Stonn to the death for my right to freedom.”

McCoy blinked at him, shocked. “A fight to the death was on the table, Spock?” He couldn’t fathom Spock asking for a divorce with that as a possible consequence.

“By tradition and by law, such combat was required. But because all parties assembled were agreeable to the dissolution of the bond, and because there were no… extenuating circumstances, the customary challenge was bypassed.”

“Extenuating circumstances?”

“Nothing that need concern us now.” Spock considered. "I believe combat would have been more likely had I announced an intention to formalize and consummate the marriage. In that case, it is likely T'Pring would have issued a challenge."

“Fuck, Spock.” McCoy stared at him. “You might’ve said something.”

“That is so. Yet it would not have changed my decision.” 

“I probably shouldn’t have flipped off your ex when it was all over. Sorry about that.”

“You were within your rights to do so.” Spock gazed down at his lap, seeming ashamed. “Her remarks were extremely rude, of a personal nature involving unfounded sexual insinuations and racial prejudice. Though she did not understand it, your gesture was quite fully warranted.”

“Glad I didn’t cause an intergalactic incident.” McCoy squirmed. “Don’t worry, Spock, I don’t blame you because your ex is a bitch. Hell, if everybody Joss ever insulted blamed me for it….” He shrugged, trying on a sheepish grin. 

Spock nodded, relaxing a little. He had his damned sketch pad with him, McCoy realized, held discreetly against his thigh. 

“Did you come in here just to upset me with that combat to the death revelation, or did you want to draw me again?” He felt strangely vulnerable, his breath tight in his chest.

“I had an idea of sitting with you tonight to ensure you are well. I thought drawing would pass the time.”

“How would you like me to pose for you?” McCoy asked on impulse. He thought of Amanda’s suggestion that he should look at Spock’s sketches. Spock always drew him as he was. Did he find beauty in that somehow, like found art? Would he rather Bones did something more entertaining or artistic?

“You may do whatever you wish.” 

Bones considered him for a long moment. “That’s no help. I’m gonna ask you that again sometime when we’re back on Earth and I’m feeling better.” The words came out half-threat, half-promise; he wasn’t quite sure what moved him to say them. “And when I do, I’m gonna expect a better answer.”

Spock tilted his head and nodded once, inscrutable. He stepped over and sat on the foot of McCoy’s bed, only a few inches from his feet. 

Bones stretched himself out in what he imagined would be an acceptably graceful posture, then settled in to watch Spock sketch him, leaving himself facing toward Spock instead of looking away. He hadn’t ever done that before, not except for sneaking glances at him during the class; it felt oddly like looking into the lens of a camera. He remembered the dark stillness of Spock’s eyes, but now it didn’t look flat and cold the way he’d once thought. Now it looked velvety, intent, as fraught with tension as the drawings Spock had once made of his naked body. 

Bones shivered a little. He’d left his hand lying on his thigh, quite close to his cock, and suddenly he understood how provocative that might appear from Spock’s perspective. He flushed suddenly, realizing his lips were parted, letting him pull in more of the thin air; he had no idea what his expression might reveal. Christ, had he laid himself out for Spock looking like a two-dollar whore?

It was too late to reposition and pretend he’d meant to do something else. Spock was already sketching, pencil moving busily. He wondered if Spock would show him the drawing when it was done; he wondered if he could handle knowing the sort of secrets Spock was seeing whenever he looked at McCoy.

Maybe that’s why he hadn’t asked to look at any of the sketches.

McCoy tried to stop worrying, looking at Spock instead. He was absorbed in his work and while he drew, he hardly seemed aware of McCoy’s scrutiny. 

Against the backdrop of the window onto the desert, the landscape awash in subtle purples fading slowly toward black, Spock looked natural in a way he simply didn’t on Earth. He looked as if he truly belonged here-- but Bones had a feeling that was just an illusion, given what Spock had confessed to McCoy about the Vulcan Science Academy. Amanda saying Bones was the first friend he’d brought home supported that hypothesis; a child of two worlds, maybe Spock felt no true sense of belonging on either. 

Whatever his expression revealed of his thought, he knew Spock could see it when he lifted his head to look at McCoy again. The Vulcan’s expressive eyes softened as their gazes met, and McCoy held his breath for a moment, his heart aflutter, almost expecting Spock to lean forward to offer a kiss or a touch. Instead, the corner of Spock’s mouth lifted very slightly, a smile so faint that McCoy was almost sure he was imagining things. 

The moment of connection relaxed him, draining away the last of his self-consciousness, and soon the quiet scratching of the pencil lulled him, so he closed his eyes to listen. 

Spock was still sitting at the foot of his bed when McCoy finally turned over and drifted off to sleep, the open sketchbook lying between them with the pencil slanting across the page. 

Bones was too sleepy to think to look at it.


	15. Chapter 15

When Bones awoke, Spock had gone and taken his sketches with him.

Morning sunlight streamed over the desert, though the window had polarized to screen the glare. He gazed out: Vulcan’s Forge was still just as forbidding and severe as before. It was maybe the least Christmaslike Christmas holiday McCoy could remember. Even in Georgia where there wasn’t ever any snow for the holidays, you could at least cut down a cedar tree and decorate it, or shoot down a bunch of mistletoe and tie it up in curling ribbon, then hang it to get the kids all in a lather. All the shops and public areas would play carols and people would be festive and happy, smiling, wishing you a--

“Merry Christmas,” Amanda greeted him as he emerged. “Spock’s tentatively agreed the two of you will stay through the holiday. I hope that’s in keeping with your plans.”

“Yeah, I’m here for the duration.” McCoy smiled at her, offering his arm. “Even though Vulcan seems a little, I don’t know. Less festive than I’m used to.” She accepted and they walked together; he gave her the patented McCoy twinkle by way of apology, and she laughed at him, pleased.

“Vulcans don’t make a habit of celebrating all the Federation holidays, no. They have very few of their own, but even with those, describing the observance as a ‘celebration’ would be a stretch.” She smiled up at him. “We’ll have a Christmas tree, at least; it’s a tradition in this house. All right, it’s more of a bush, really, but I think you’ll find Vulcan has its share of pleasant holiday surprises.” 

She paused. “I thought perhaps you might like to accompany me into ShiKahr today for a Christmas shopping trip. Without Spock. He’s terrible at going Christmas shopping; he always catches me somehow and I can’t ever keep his presents a secret.”

“Oh, shi-- er. Sorry, ma’am. I just remembered I haven’t bought Spock a gift. I didn’t have any idea what he’d like, and I wasn’t sure he’d celebrate the holiday, really. Then this trip came up as a last minute thing, and I never had a chance.”

“He’s very difficult to shop for,” she commiserated. “If he doesn’t have something he needs, he simply gets it, and you never have a chance to get it for him. It’s difficult to guess what he might want; he’s very practical.”

“My mom was like that. I always had to buy her perishables, the kind of thing she had to buy for herself over and over. I’d get her a special meal and some flowers, maybe some expensive spices she liked to cook with. I’d buy her seeds to put in her bird feeders.” 

Amanda smiled at him. “Sounds like you were a good son.”

“Dunno about that. I didn’t make a very good husband or father.” He sighed, feeling her eyes resting heavily on him. “I blame my career for most of that. My wife got lonely during all that time I spent on call handling trauma cases while I did my residency at Grady. I was pretty much a ghost in the household, I’m afraid.”

“That kind of thing can be hard. Sarek spends more time away from home than he spends here; it can be dismaying.” She patted his hand. “I’m glad to have the two of you here for the holiday. Let’s get breakfast, then transport into the city.”

ShiKahr was a wonderland of strangely off-kilter architecture, brilliantly cantilevered and faceted together with reflective glass. The natives were calm and quiet, moving about efficiently; the temperature was baking hot. McCoy made sure to keep a cold drink in his hand at all times so he’d stay hydrated, and he had an ampoule of tri-ox seated in a hypo in case he needed a little boost. No repeats of yesterday's heat exhaustion.

Together he and Amanda spent half the day wandering through an area filled with small shops that McCoy privately considered way too artsy-fartsy. Many different species wandered through the area; it was obviously a tourist trap, though McCoy was vaguely amazed to find such a thing on Vulcan.

He managed to buy a small gift for his hostess without her catching him-- a pretty beige scarf of watered Andorian silk that she could drape around her hair. But search though he might, he couldn’t find anything he thought Spock might want. 

“I don’t think we’re doing very well here,” Amanda said when they stopped to buy lunch. The food they got reminded him of falafel; maybe that was why Spock liked hummus so much. “I haven’t found the first thing-- and I hardly know what to buy for you, either!”

“You don’t have to get me anything, ma’am.” Bones hesitated. “You’ve already given me a great gift.”

She tilted her head, birdlike, to regard him, and he felt himself flush a little as he explained. “Your son. He’s become a dear friend.” A couple walked past, and he followed them with his eyes as one lifted his hand, two fingers extended; the other reached to touch them and then they went on together, visibly unified. Bones’s heart gave a funny, lonely little lurch the way it sometimes did when he saw two humans kissing and it reminded him of his own solitude.

Amanda hesitated, following his gaze, politely waiting until his attention returned to her. “I’m afraid I’m about to be rather rude, Leonard. But I would very much like to know. A friend-- is that all Spock is to you?”

McCoy grimaced, looking down into the tart, spicy drink that had come with his food. “Ma’am, your son isn’t very demonstrative at the best of times. I reckon that’s all he wants to be to me, and if his friendship is all I can have, then I’m honored to have it. I wouldn’t ever want to make him uncomfortable by asking for more.”

“Then you do have feelings for him.”

“Half of Starfleet Academy’s crushed on him at one time or another,” Bones tried to deflect her curiosity. “He’s mysterious, exotic… and damned good-looking. Must get it from you.” He couldn’t resist the gallantry. “Most of them get over it eventually and move on.”

“You’re quite the silver-tongued southern gentleman, aren’t you?” Amanda shook her head at him, and her laugh was almost a giggle. “How am I supposed to answer that? ‘Fiddledeedee, how you do run on?’”

“Well-quoted.” Bones hoped he’d managed to change the subject. “Gallantry’s a regional hazard in Georgia, just like _Gone with the Wind_ -themed debutante balls and places named Peachtree.”

“You’re almost as skilled at evasive rhetoric as my son.” 

And she was almost as merciless as Spock. Bones inclined his chin, wryly conceding the point. “I don’t know quite how to answer your question, ma’am. I suppose I haven’t let myself think about it too much; it seemed like the sort of thing that would only lead to heartache. I’m satisfied with what we’ve got. If he ever lets me know he wants more, well then, I’ll decide what to do about it at the time.” He sipped his drink and grimaced; as he got down toward the dregs, it was more sour than he liked. 

“That’s fair.” She folded her napkin into a neat square, then folded it over again. “But are you sure you aren’t holding him at arm’s length, creating the very reality you expect?”

Bones blinked at her, surprised. “Why would you say that?”

“You don’t look at his sketches, for one. You’re just as reserved and aloof as he is, for another. I’ve only had a limited chance to watch the two of you together, but it seems to me that even when you joke with him, you’re distancing yourself. You let opportunities to grow closer go by untouched." She hesitated, creasing her napkin in smaller and smaller squares, obviously a little embarrassed. "I’ve had experience courting a Vulcan, Leonard.” The napkin wouldn't double over again. She put it down and it began to unfold itself very slowly, giving him something to stare at instead of meeting her gaze. “Somebody has to be the one to open a door. You have to let them know it’s all right, that it’s safe, to feel what they feel. They aren’t very good at judging that for themselves.” 

McCoy nodded mostly in hopes of getting her to stop talking, cheeks burning with embarrassment. “I’ll try to keep that in mind.” _Who’s going to tell **me** it’s safe?_ She didn’t speak again, having said her piece. _Not you, obviously._

He felt subdued as they left, so he followed after her tamely as she led him deeper into a part of the city where the streets were filled with Vulcans, not tourists. The shops became fewer and farther between, but the goods were visibly of much higher quality.

“There is an art supply store nearby, and a music store next to it. Spock frequented them both when he still lived with us,” Amanda said.

“That sounds promising.” Maybe he could get Spock a set of strings for the harp he’d seen resting on a shelf but hadn’t ever heard Spock play. Or some art supplies. Maybe kind of lame, as holiday gifts went, but better than nothing. 

He found the perfect gift on a shelf inside the art store: a beautifully tooled case of some incredibly light, strong stone, carved in geometric designs. Inside rested several bottles of water-soluble ink: high quality pigments, some of them unusual and expensive: a shimmering blue, gleaming gold, and numerous other colors in addition to the more common ebony. 

The other side of the case featured an array of brushes, their bristles of varied lengths and cuts: some for painting, others for calligraphy. An example of what might be achieved with the supplies had been placed on a stand above the case: a delicate painting of feathery reddish leaves and delicate purple flowers that reminded Bones of traditional Japanese art, with Vulcan characters looped and swirled around it, so intricate and perfect it seemed impossible the writing had not been created by a computer. This wasn't just 'art supplies,' it _was_ art.

“That’s beautiful, Leonard. He’d love it,” Amanda said softly. Love. She said the word so easily, making it part of the same sentence with Spock like it belonged there. 

Bones bought the case and its contents, and an attendant wrapped it in plain paper using origami techniques; the wrapping would butterfly out at the slightest tug, framing the case within. 

He bought some strings for Spock’s harp, too; he’d like to hear it someday, and Amanda assured him Spock could play. “It’s a Vulcan lyre, and yes. He’s very good. He took second place once in the All-Vulcan Music Competition,” she said. “You should ask him to play for you.”

Bones completed his purchases at another nearby store that sold journals and other books hand-made with leaves of beautifully smooth, thick, durable paper: beautiful things, far more pleasant in the hand than a padd, perfect for Spock to try his new brushes in. 

For her part, Amanda chose less formal, more sentimental gifts, and McCoy was vastly amused to see her purchase her son a fuzzy stuffed animal with large white fangs.

“It’s a sehlat,” she said, blushing. “Spock was very fond of his pet sehlat as a child. He and I-Chaya were inseparable.”

“He’ll value it because it’s from you,” Bones told her, gallant to the very end. 

She smirked at him, reading his mind. “If a mother can’t indulge herself with her only son, when can she indulge herself?” She straightened her back. “What would you like for Christmas, Leonard?”

“You don’t need to get me anything. Really!” He shook his head, vehement. “Vulcan citizens don’t observe Christmas, just like you said.”

“Spock has a present for you.” Her smile lurked just under the corners of her mouth, deep and mischievous. “He consulted me while you slept, and we decided on it together.”

“Really?” Bones forced himself to calm down; she wasn’t about to tell him what it was. “That’s very kind of you both, I’m sure.” Probably some kind of practical thing, a medical guide maybe. He didn’t much care if it was tap water and lawn trimmings; as long as it came from Spock, he’d treasure it. Oh, sure, he’d fuss to himself if it were a lousy gift, but he’d hide it away with his favorite things afterward. 

Amanda glanced up at the sky, where the sun had begun to sink toward the horizon. “We should be getting back. Spock will worry if we aren’t there for dinner. I asked him to make curry.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a short one! I hope tomorrow's will make up for that. ;-)

Bones and Amanda found a transport site and soon arrived back in the compound. Bones tucked his parcels away under his bed to await Christmas morning and went down to the dining room, where Spock sat waiting, the meal steaming on the table as if he had anticipated the precise instant of their return. The curry was quite good, if a little hotter than Leonard was used to.

Amanda seemed well-acclimated to spice and ate heartily. “Leonard wouldn’t tell me what he wanted for Christmas, Spock, so I’ve decided to bake for him. My boys should have cookies on Christmas eve.” She leaned toward Leonard, conspiratorial. “Spock’s particularly fond of gingerbread.”

To McCoy’s vast amusement they all put on aprons, as he and Spock were deputized to help make the cookies. 

Amanda insisted Spock and Leonard decorate the gingerbread men, an activity fraught with both peril and interest. You could certainly tell which pan was Spock’s and which was McCoy’s once it was all over, though neither pan was precisely what you would’ve expected. McCoy made sure to paste big frosting smiles onto the faces of each of his.

“Thank goodness she mixed them up. They’ll taste better than they look.” Bones reached into the bowl and snitched a bit of icing, licking it off his forefinger. Spock’s eyes followed him, dark and steady.

“Leonard, I have heard you say on more than one occasion that refined sugar is a systemic poison.”

“Cumulatively, yes. So’s alcohol, and you don’t see me passing up any chances at that.”

“Spock, you should tell Leonard about the time I made you a chocolate birthday cake.” 

He raised both brows at her and remained silent, so she turned to McCoy herself. “I didn’t know it the first time I made Spock a birthday cake, but chocolate has an intoxicating effect on Vulcans, Leonard. Spock was only five. I received a comm call in the middle of giving him a piece with a glass of juice. He ate the slice, then took the entire cake and went away with it. While I was busy on the comm, he took apart Sarek’s communications console to get at the fiber optic crystals because they fascinated him. He devoured the whole cake and left precise geometric designs made of chocolate handprints on every hallway wall in the compound. At some point, he glued the crystals together to make a crude magnifying device, then used it to set the exterior compost bin on fire. After the fire was extinguished we found him fast asleep in the kennel, curled between I-Chaya’s paws, with frosting all over his face.”

McCoy nearly strangled himself struggling not to laugh out loud. 

“I am sure Leonard was a paragon of decorum as a child,” Spock said drily.

“I’m never taking you home to meet _my_ mama if you believe that,” Leonard wiped tears of mirth from the corners of his eyes. “But I’ll tell you about the time I put the sow in my cousin’s closet one Friday to get revenge on him after he kissed Susie Wilkins. I was sweet on her at the time; he did it just to get my goat. Problem was, his family went to visit friends that weekend and the sow farrowed. They didn’t find her till Sunday night. When he finally opened the closet door, there was pig poop everywhere and all the piglets went scurrying every which way. They never did get the poo-prints from all those trotters steamed out of the carpet.”

Amanda cackled out loud and Spock’s expression softened, so he was glad he’d shared the story.

“Spock, would you fetch the _isuke_ from the conservatory?”

“Yes, mother.” He went out and brought back a terra cotta pot containing a small, unprepossessing bush with tiny green leaves. McCoy watched as Amanda filled a pitcher with water.

“Our Christmas tree, Leonard. Would you like to do the honors?”

She gave him the pitcher and he gingerly watered the spiny little bush, startled when it rustled and the tips of its branches and the nodules next to its defensive spines began to swell.

They all stood back to watch. Within minutes the little bush put forth buds and bloomed, its branches absolutely covered with small, star-shaped white blossoms. They released a delicate, sweet perfume that made him think of jasmine back home.

“It’s beautiful,” he murmured. 

They sat before it, nibbling hot gingerbread and drinking tea; after a while McCoy grew pleasantly sleepy. Exhausted from his long day of walking around in the high gravity and the heat, Bones excused himself. Spock followed, pausing when they arrived outside the door of McCoy’s guest room. 

“I have taken the liberty of presenting one of your gifts early, so you may have time to examine it in private.” Spock seemed oddly nervous, not looking McCoy in the eye. “It is waiting within. I hope you will find it pleasing, Leonard.” He gestured toward Bones’s door and moved on down the corridor without awaiting a response, vanishing quickly into his room. 

A padd lay on Leonard’s bed, its screen becoming active as he stepped inside. He picked it up and swallowed hard.

It displayed a holo of the picture Spock had drawn the previous night-- Leonard lying in bed half naked, languid and inviting, the pose and the tilt of his half-bare body just as provocative as he’d feared-- but he was looking out of the page with a light in his eyes that made his own heart skip a beat. The only other time he’d seen a look of such pure tenderness and love captured on his face was in a holo his mother had taken of him holding Joanna fresh out of the nursery, her little fist clutching the tip of his forefinger. His whole heart was visible in his eyes. 

_Fuck, do I really look at him like that?_

One hand rose to cover his mouth; he felt almost faint, his pulse thundering in his ears. Other files were stored on the device; the gallery bar at the bottom of the display indicated there were more than five hundred.

All of Spock’s sketches. _I need so much goddamn bourbon for this._ He only had his little emergency flask, though. It was going to have to be enough; he’d save it for the very last.

He swallowed hard. With burning cheeks he touched the bar, moving the slider thumb all the way back to the very first sketch.


	17. Chapter 17

Flickering thumbnail images of drawings flashed past as Bones dragged his finger across the screen. He realized some of the drawings were intricate, finished pieces; others hasty impressions. When he stopped at the beginning the original nudes, somewhat familiar, still seemed intensely erotic, but strangely impersonal compared to the most recent drawing. 

The others were far more intimate than the classroom pieces as well. Him sitting by Spock’s window, gazing out at the bay, rapt. Him bent over an experiment in the organic chemistry lab-- when had Spock seen that? The angle of his jaw and his throat, the line of his waist and shoulder, barely suggested with hasty lines-- yet somehow evocative. His hands, wrapped around a mug, resting on a table, lying on his lap. Him laughing, his eyes closed, his chin tilted back. Him raising a brow, skeptical. Him looking miserably wet and chilled as he hunched against the cold San Francisco fog, every bit of him drooping. Him looking up through his lashes, mischievous yet somehow vulnerable, his mouth soft, a little uncertain, inviting Spock to share the mischief, yet afraid of rejection. 

Him looking so mad steam might as well have spouted out through his ears. Him silhouetted against the window bars in Alcatraz looking up into the slanting light, him staring into a kelp-filled aquarium tank with wonder, him eating a sandwich, reading, dozing, holding chopsticks, even strolling on a boardwalk in cut-offs and a frayed-soft T-shirt. Him fast asleep on the guest futon in Spock’s apartment, one hand resting on his chest, the other flung out over the edge of the bed, his face soft with slumber. 

Hundreds of things he’d done plus dozens more he wasn’t sure of, Spock’s memory and imagination both so perfect he couldn’t tell theoretical images apart from real ones. Images of him laughing, smiling, frowning, so vital, so intense you could’ve reached out and touched every one. Leonard McCoy, caressed with lines of graphite and captured on paper, smiling out of the screen, impossibly beautiful in the way no one really is unless seen through the eyes of adoration: every damn one of the sketches a love-letter without words.

A few particular images stood out-- him standing in his dorm room with his hands at the fly of his uniform trousers, capturing the tension of the moment: ready to flick the button free. Spock had never seen that, Leonard knew; he’d turned away, but here it was. Him with jeans and no shirt, looking sidelong over his bare shoulder, flirtatious, grinning as if taunting Spock to come and get him, if he dared. Had that ever happened? Surely not. 

Him licking his fingers-- yeah, he’d done that a few times in front of Spock, okay, but had he actually curled his lips around one of the pads and sucked, his eyes closed in bliss? He hadn’t ever touched Spock’s futon, he was absolutely sure of that-- just the spare, but there he was, pictured lying naked in Spock’s bed tangled in Spock’s blue-patterned white sheets and his goose-down comforter, eyes half-lidded, wrists and palms exposed lying next to his head, lips parted in a sultry little smile, eyes hot, obviously waiting to welcome Spock as his lover. 

Holy _fuck._ That _never_ happened, but it sure as hell made his cock sit up and take notice to think of Spock imagining it, and he clutched at the little flask, craving a drink, the metal turning slick inside his sweaty palm. 

The fingers of his left hand shook on the padd, his mind dizzy and frantic: torn between panic and possibility. If he hadn’t been on Vulcan he might have fled the place, then run as far as a transporter could take him. Maybe all the way back to his mama’s creaky old house in Georgia, where he could curl up under a quilt in his childhood room and pretend he hadn’t ever gone any farther away from home than Atlanta, back when Vulcans only existed as half-imagined curiosities on the holographic news. He would have lain hidden there while he tried to figure out what the fuck to do next.

Trembling, he managed to unscrew the cap of his flask and lifted it to his lips, but he drew his hand away without drinking and closed the flask again, setting it aside on the bed table. What the hell had Spock intended, giving him this?

He turned off the padd and sat there for a moment in the dim room before getting up and walking out, not letting himself wait long enough to think, just bulldozing along in the heat of impulse-- finding Spock’s door unlocked, not pausing to knock before he barged right in.

Spock sat on his bed, his sketchbook open on his lap, but he had no pencil in his hand; his fingers stopped, caught in the act of stroking over the page as if he could caress what he had drawn there. The picture was visible, upside-down. He had envisioned McCoy standing in the conservatory as Amanda suggested, looking up through the mist at a spray of lush flowers, smiling.

Bones stood before him, quivering with false bravado and telling himself it was anger, not terror. He glared at Spock until Spock lifted his head. Out in the hall, Amanda’s antique wooden grandfather clock chimed twelve times. It was Christmas morning already, if the thing could tell Vulcan time. Bones had no idea what he was going to say before his mouth actually opened and words came out.

“Do you only want to look, or do you ever plan to touch me?”

Spock stared at him for a long moment without speaking, then closed the cover of the sketchbook and set it aside, lifting it in both hands, his motions economical and precise. His empty hands fell on his thighs; he pushed off the bed and rose to his feet.

Bones stood his ground, his heart hammering, as Spock stepped forward, well into his personal space. Spock’s fingers formed the ta’al, but he didn’t lift it in the customary salute. Instead, he reached out. 

Bones met him halfway, hand trembling, his heart feeling as though it might burst; Spock’s parted fingers slowly touched his, caressing over the back of his hand. Bones swallowed hard as Spock’s dark eyes went almost black; he could feel Spock’s breath on his face-- even feel the buzz of Spock himself, of his mind, powerful and piercing Bones with sudden clarity. Bones gasped as the contact laid him open, revealing everything Bones had ever felt for Spock, his half-denied longing, the tender, tentative affection that had somehow burned down deep into the core of him and slowly consumed his heart as they spent more and more time together. 

Spock’s own thoughts were revealed as well; he burned with some overwhelming, unfamiliar feeling, very different from Bones’s own tangled emotions, very strange. Desire? Love? …Possessiveness, protection? It had something of all of those and none, unlike anything Bones had ever known, alien yet warm, strange to him yet fathomless in its intensity.

Bones made a soft, wounded sound as the touch of Spock’s fingers tingled on his, trailing sweetness against his skin-- trailing fire against his unshielded mind. He didn’t know what it was supposed to feel like, but it felt damn _good_ , the way he’d always thought it must feel to shoot up with heroin; he reached to curl his other hand around Spock’s, gasping, drowning.

Spock withdrew. “Don’t go,” Bones whispered, desolate, but Spock’s hand returned at once, this time caressing him palm to palm, and it was even better, even stronger. He whimpered, stepping closer, and his head sank to rest against Spock’s shoulder as his whole mind and body abdicated awareness of everything but the points of contact between their fingers. He inhaled a shuddering, sobbing breath; Spock’s arm went about his waist, pulling him in, supporting him. 

_“Ashayam,”_ the words formed in his mind, in Spock’s dark, rich tones, so much fuller than the human ear could hear. “I have yearned to touch you.”

“Thank God for that,” Bones whispered quietly against Spock’s throat, not really understanding the Vulcan word. He slid his hands over Spock’s shoulders, feeling the sharp-angled bones of his shoulder blades and the gentle ripple of his spine and ribs. Warmth seeped into his bare chest through the thin fabric of Spock’s sleeping robe, reminding him of the chilly night air. “Me too. I just… I needed to know we were both on the same page before I let myself go.”

Spock’s wordless approval warmed him. “As did I.” His fingers stroked over Leonard’s, velvety warm-- light as a feather, yet the mind-to-mind contact that came with the caress was more intensely intimate than anything he’d ever felt before. 

“So that’s why Vulcans don’t want to touch random people,” Leonard murmured. “Makes sense.”

“You may offer me the _ozh’esta_ whenever you wish,” Spock told him, lips ruffling his hair. “Its closest human equivalent is a kiss.”

He could kiss Spock whenever he wanted. Leonard felt giddy, dizzy with anticipation. “We were dating all along.” 

Spock’s response felt like a smile. “Of course, Leonard.”

“God, I’m an idiot.” McCoy tried to get hold of himself-- failing, he merely stood leaning against Spock, luxuriating in the warmth of his flesh and the welcoming embrace of his mind. 

After a long time he stirred, inhaling a deep breath, rich with the spicy scent of Spock’s skin. His feet were ice-cold, and despite Spock’s warmth, he was beginning to shiver. “What time is it, anyway? It’s got to be getting on toward oh-one-hundred.”

“The time is zero hours, thirty-nine minutes, and twenty-seven seconds.” _How the hell did Spock make that sound sexy?_

Now the sensation of Spock’s mind touching his felt a little like laughter, and Leonard blushed. 

“I’ve gotta go back to bed or I’ll be worthless tomorrow. Your mama will be disappointed if I sleep in till noon.”

“We would not wish to disappoint her.” That mild amusement lingered; Leonard had a distinct sense he thought Amanda would not be disappointed at all if neither Spock nor Leonard emerged until noon, especially if they both came out of the same room.

“Uh-uh. Not that. _Pas devant ta mère,”_ McCoy muttered, and Spock smiled faintly-- that was definitely a damn smile; he saw it for sure this time. 

“Then you will have to return to your own room.”

McCoy groaned. That deep velvet voice sounded damn good purring in his ear, and Spock’s fingers still stroked his, more intimate than kissing. “I forget how to walk.”

“I could carry you.”

“Then you’d just have to go back to _your_ room.”

“Perhaps so, but I seem to have greater self-discipline than you.”

“Nice.” McCoy nodded, teasing. “Insulting a man when he’s standing barefoot in your room freezing to death because he doesn’t want to stop kissing you.”

Spock promptly withdrew his hands and stepped back, and McCoy sighed with dismay. 

“I would not wish for you to fall ill, Leonard.” Spock’s eyes were gentle. 

“Fine. I’ll go.” He forced himself to move away, but turned back at the door. “G’night, Spock. And thanks. It was a good present. Best present ever.” He didn’t mean just the sketches, and they both knew it. 

He padded back to his room with a spring in his step, so wide-awake and giddy with happiness he hardly touched the ground. He was gonna have a hard time falling asleep, but he had a damn good solution to that-- one he wouldn’t actually have to feel so guilty about anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Ashayam:_ (Vulcan) Beloved  
>  _Ozh'esta:_ (Vulcan) Vulcan kiss or embrace via touching two fingers together; offered in polite company as a gesture of affection and a way to connect and share feelings or confirm togetherness.  
>  _Pas devant ta mère:_ (French) Not around/in front of your mother. (This is actually sort of a Discworld reference. X-D)


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The beautiful artwork in this chapter was very kindly made for me by the talented and incredibly generous [Regulationblues](http://regulationblues.tumblr.com/)!

Bones woke up, loose-limbed and happy, with red sunlight streaming onto his face through the window. For a moment he lay confused, thinking of red-alert lighting in the simulator, but Vulcan’s Forge greeted him when he opened his eyes, every possible shade of ferrous oxidation. After a minute he remembered Spock.

There wasn’t any coffee in his room, but he was whistling by the time he got in the shower, in a truly unprecedented good morning mood. If he’d been alone in the house, he might even have sung.

He smelled coffee before he got to the kitchen, and he poked his head around the doorjamb, wondering who was up before him. Both Amanda and Spock already sat at the informal kitchen breakfast bar, and the enticing aroma of coffee rose from her steaming cup.

“Leonard. Help yourself,” Amanda smiled at him.

“Is there somewhere I can put these while we eat?” He held up his gifts to illustrate. He felt giddy all over again seeing Spock, who lifted his head, his dark-eyed gaze touching Leonard warmly.

“Mine are in the dining area by the tree,” Amanda pointed him toward the appropriate door. 

Once he’d emptied his hands, he poured a cup of coffee and sat down with a sigh, suddenly noticing Spock’s hand extended toward him, two fingers waiting.

Blushing terribly, he reached out, resting his fingertips against Spock’s for a long moment, uncomfortably aware of Amanda’s sudden, pleased smile stretching so wide it almost split her face. 

“Morning, Spock,” he said, voice gruff with embarrassment-- but also with tenderness. Spock’s mind nestled against his for a brief moment, pure and perfect. Leonard recognized the same affectionate emotion he’d experienced last night, and tried to push his own pleased response toward Spock before their fingers parted and he was free to fill his plate. 

“Leonard examined my sketches,” Spock told his mother, mild as milk. “His reaction was precisely as I had hoped.”

“So I see.” She gave Bones a wink, and he blushed even harder.

Coffee, toast, and fresh fruit were all he wanted-- along with a gingerbread cookie-- but given his good mood and the pleasant company, the simple fare tasted like a feast. 

When they finished, Spock rose and went to get his gifts from his room. Amanda laid her hand on Bones’s shoulder, apologetic. 

“I couldn’t tell you what you wanted to hear. The secret was his to tell, not mine. I could only encourage him to go ahead and give the gift he wanted you to have.” She tucked a stray wisp of hair back behind his ear. “But I’m more glad than I can say to see how you decided to respond.”

“Wasn’t any choice to it at all,” he admitted. “I was just happy.”

“He won’t always be easy.”

“Hell, ma’am, begging your pardon.” Bones straightened up and gave her a look that said _don’t go telling a veteran how tough it gets in the trenches._ “I’m not so easy myself. Just ask my ex-wife.”

She just patted him. “Let’s go in. Spock will be back soon with his gifts.”

Spock and McCoy both insisted Amanda open hers first; she cooed over her new scarf and beamed when Spock gave her a drawing of Sarek, ready for framing. 

Spock was the one who really racked up; he had half a dozen packages from his mother (mostly leisure clothes) and the stuffed sehlat, which made him go faintly green across the cheeks and give her an exasperated look. McCoy noted he tucked it away carefully, though, and he was willing to bet it wasn’t going in the recycler. He kept his damn mouth shut, waiting his turn.

Bones’s gifts came next. Spock opened the small parcels first, finding the lyre strings and the journal; he gave the strings a pleased look and promised to play for Leonard, then examined the journal in minute detail, admiring the texture and weight of the paper. He left the best for last, and Bones found himself a little shaky as Spock fanned out the wrapping paper and opened the stone lid.

He reached in with great care, drawing out a shimmering bottle of gold ink and replacing it, then examining a brush.

“Leonard,” he said softly, and reached out. More than a kiss, he offered a full hand clasp, complete with a wash of emotion: embarrassment, Bones thought, but also gratitude and pleasure and a distinct longing to be in private so he might display his emotions more openly. More _physically._

It was enough to make Bones duck his head and turn crimson yet again; he was afraid to meet Spock’s gaze with his mother present, knowing his eyes would say too much. They had to keep their damn hands off each other in public, after all. Well… more or less.

Spock’s gift for McCoy was left until last. It was a large box, simple but smooth, and when Bones lifted the lid, he found a set of Vulcan robes waiting inside: tasteful browns and creams with inlaid green accents and boots to match.

“After you agreed to accompany me to Vulcan, I ordered them made to your measure,” Spock said quietly. “There is a complete formal robe set as well as a lighter wrap beneath, suitable for casual occasions. You may wear the wrap over any style of clothing, if you wish. If you would be willing to try the robes on, I can assess their fit. They can still be altered for you if necessary.”

Bones went to his room and figured out how to get into the damn things; when he emerged, Amanda clapped her hands with delight. “They fit perfectly. Leonard, you look so handsome! Spock, what a wonderful choice. The green accents bring out the green in his eyes.” She wouldn’t rest until Bones surveyed himself in a full-length mirror, embarrassed because she was right. He even looked taller wearing them. Spock stood at his shoulder, observing, and though his face remained austere, his eyes smiled. 

“The robes have pockets as well,” Spock observed. Bones automatically started patting himself, looking for them, and discovered a little square box buried in the folds of the garment. He fumbled until he located the opening, drawing out both the box and a set of theater tickets.

“The Karidian Company of Players presents Macbeth,” he read the English translation at the bottom of the holographic image on the ticket. “ShiKahr Performance Theater. Tonight?”

“It seemed logical to provide an occasion for you to wear your new clothes,” Spock said, very correct, and McCoy laughed softly.

“You’re taking me out in public?” He grinned, mischievous. “‘Angels and ministers of grace, defend us.’”

 _“Hamlet_ , Act I, Scene IV,” Spock responded instantly, indulgent. “There is also a small box.”

“Whatever could that be?” Amanda teased mildly. “Goodness. I’m out of coffee.” She slipped away.

Bones shuffled the box in his hands as he looked for the latch, intuition warning him this was the real gift. Judging by Amanda’s decision to vanish, it was a big deal. 

He opened it, finding a necklace chain and pendant lying within. The stone was a brilliant blue opal, so pure and clear it almost looked false. It was set within a traditional Vulcan design of interlaced diamond shapes.

He swallowed hard, lifting it out of the box with fingers made clumsy by self-consciousness.

“I have noticed you enjoy wearing a variety of jewelry.” Spock spoke in a nervous rush, the polite phrases obviously rehearsed. “This necklace has been in my family for four generations. My parents gave it to me on my seventh birthday so that I might give it to T’Pring when our wedding was formalized. I am quite pleased to present it to you instead as a token of my respect and affection.”

“Oh, Spock. I can’t accept something like this.” This wasn’t just a Christmas gift. This was a _commitment symbol_. Panic surged through Bones; his tongue felt swollen and his whole face tingled. “You don’t even know what a pain in the ass I am yet!” 

“I look forward to finding out,” Spock said with the ghost of a smirk, and Leonard was tempted to toss the box at his head. 

Spock plucked the little box from McCoy’s unresisting fingers, and before Bones could stop him, Spock draped the necklace around his throat and fastened it.

“It is yours,” he said, and there wasn’t much arguing with that. 

Artwork by [Regulationblues](http://regulationblues.tumblr.com/)

“Damn it, Spock,” McCoy breathed, torn between exasperation and adoration. “I may have to kiss you by way of thanks. Human style.”

“That would be acceptable.”

Acceptable? McCoy rolled his eyes; he wasn’t the only one who was going to be a pain in the ass. “Your enthusiasm is reassuring,” he kept his tone dry. He was never quite sure when Spock would ‘get’ sarcasm, but this didn’t seem to be one of those times. “Ever been kissed before?”

“By my mother.”

“That’s a no, then.” McCoy stepped close to him. “You’ve seen it done on holos?” Spock nodded. “Good. Here’s the drill. I tilt my head to the right, you tilt yours to the right. Just enough that we don’t bump noses. Closing your eyes is optional, but I recommend it. Let me take care of the rest this time.”

“I am prepared.”

It wasn’t exactly romantic, but the lesson worked. Spock presented himself perfectly, and Bones reached to steady his face. He brushed their lips together, tentative at first, then with a little more pressure as Spock remained willing. 

Yearning crept in, slow and gentle. Spock’s hands settled on his waist and Bones made a soft little murmur of approval, nuzzling just a bit, keeping his lips mostly closed. Not too much, not too fast… build the sweet burn, intensify the ache of it, let it sizzle, make Spock crave more. And he did; Bones could feel it in the way Spock’s hands tightened on his waist, pulling him forward. 

“Mmm. Your mother’s still in the next room,” Bones chided, letting the words brush against Spock’s mouth. He tasted of breakfast tea and honey. “More later. After the show.”

“Yes, Leonard,” Spock said at once, the pupils of his eyes dilated, so dark they made Bones swallow hard. He’d like to stay like this forever, but unfortunately, they couldn’t. It was Christmas, and he had something important he needed to do.

“If we’re going out later, I should call Joanna first.” Bones frowned. “What’s the time zone conversion, anyway? I don’t want to forget to call her on Christmas.”

Spock calculated the timing, which fortunately fell almost within the limits of being before Joanna’s bedtime, and led McCoy to a comm.

“Sorry, Joss. No, I’m not planetside, I couldn’t call earlier. I’m on Vulcan. Yes, Vulcan. I have reasons, okay? Hell, you gave up the right to know why when you-- look, can you just let me talk to her instead of ripping strips out of my hide?” He rolled his eyes at Spock, who withdrew with considerable tact and discretion.

He finally got Joss to wake up Joanna and had a good session with her telling him what she’d got for Christmas-- maybe she’d like to play with that damn stuffed sehlat if she ever actually got to come out to visit McCoy and meet Spock. The fairy princess ballerina dress he’d sent her seemed to have been a big hit, which was a relief; the more educational toys probably weren’t as welcome, but Joss would probably see to it she played with them. 

He felt wrung out and empty by the time he turned off the comm, but there was tea in the kitchen and Spock sat waiting for him in one of the family areas. He wound up curled on the-- he wasn’t quite sure what to call the strangely stacked pile of cushions, so he settled for couch-- next to Spock, still a little too shy to touch him without an invitation, staring into the steaming cup of tea and thinking about Joanna. Every time he saw her, it just reminded him how much he’d missed. 

Spock offered his fingers, and Bones considered. “You sure? I’m kind of depressed.”

When Spock didn’t withdraw the offer, Bones let himself accept, sinking into Spock’s reassurance for a sweet, warm moment and feeling some of his cares evaporate and lift. 

“I’m never gonna tell anybody how good you are to me,” Bones mumbled, relaxing into the soft cushions and settling against Spock with a sigh. “Because then everybody’d want you.”

“I reserve the right to remember these words and use them for purposes of blackmail.” 

Bones felt so good he couldn’t even care. “Fair enough, but when you do, I’m bringing up that stuffed sehlat.”


	19. Chapter 19

Amanda chose that moment to come bustling in. Embarrassed, Bones started to sit up and pull away from Spock, but she stopped him with a stern word. “You are absolutely forbidden to move, Leonard; Spock’s a grown man and it makes me very happy to see the two of you getting along so well.” She turned her attention to Spock. “I’ve received a message from Sarek, Spock. He will be arriving here tonight, while the two of you are at the play.”

Spock stiffened so subtly Leonard almost missed it; he snuggled a little closer, trying to offer the same emotional support Spock had just given him. 

“I’ve been assembling some useful information for him,” Bones said. “It’ll be good to have a chance to share it in person.”

“That will be very helpful, I hope.” She hesitated, and Spock tensed even more. “I’m afraid T’Pau contacted him regarding the annulment, Spock.”

Spock nodded, one arm coming around Bones’s shoulders, protective. 

“I will explain the logic of my decision when we meet.”

“I’ve already spoken to him regarding Stonn.” Her eyes snapped. “Sarek doesn’t approve of T’Pring’s infidelity and disrespect, Spock. He’s just… he’s too prideful to admit that he was wrong to insist on a traditional bonding.”

“I should step out and let you two talk privately,” Bones muttered, uncomfortable as all hell. 

“This matter concerns you, Leonard.” Spock’s arm didn’t budge an inch. “Remain.”

“I don’t believe Sarek knows you and Leonard have entered into a more-than-casual relationship,” Amanda confessed. “This information may not please him at first.”

“He needs me,” Bones said, wishing he felt as confident as he sounded. “He’s not gonna throw me out while I’m still helping him.”

“Leonard has done much to earn father’s respect,” Spock agreed. “He will not be openly rude to a valued ally.”

“Spock, you’re his ally too,” Amanda protested. 

Spock steepled his fingers in elegant doubt. “Perhaps so, mother, but the relevant adjective does not apply.”

“Spock!” She was so agitated she jumped out of her chair. “You know that isn’t true.” 

He raised a brow at her, as polite as it was cynical. “You will have to consult him on that matter; I have amassed little evidence to the contrary since my decision to decline admission to the Vulcan Science Academy.”

“Back on Earth, family are always harder on each other than on anybody else, Spock.” McCoy curled around him a little tighter. “Just means they love you.”

Spock looked doubtfully at him, but he acquiesced. Yet the tension lingered. He soon withdrew, and after that he was so formal and stiff Bones didn’t get any more chances to snuggle. 

After lunch Bones gave up trying to draw him out and spent some time preparing a data chip to give to the ambassador. One of his old profs from Ole Miss had been particularly useful; she consulted for a political PR firm and specialized in the psychology of public opinion. Not only could he recommend her views, she would direct Sarek toward the firm, as well, if he wanted to hire their services. 

The more Bones thought about it, the more that seemed like what needed to be done. Somebody was eventually going to have to call for a referendum on public policy, and then the powers that be would have to lobby the electorate to vote for peace. Where all the capital for that was going to come from, he had no fucking idea. If Sarek needed help with funding, he was gonna have to remember Bones was a doctor, not a financier.

The play was nice, if a little highbrow for Bones’s taste. He sat back, surprisingly comfortable in the Vulcan clothing, and reflected on how power could corrupt good people-- people like Alexander Marcus might have been once. 

By the time the beheading was accomplished, Bones had worked through enough Elizabethan English dialect for one evening. He was glad to depart with Spock, though he restrained himself from reaching for Spock’s hand; nobody else in the stern Vulcan crowd was offering a partner any sign of affection. Bones was just glad the play had been a tragedy; he’d feel sorry for the actors if they’d presented something fun like _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ to this stony-faced, unresponsive audience. 

They had expected to take public transport back to the compound, but Sarek waited for them outside next to a private car, looking somewhat dyspeptic to McCoy’s increasingly perceptive eye. 

“Spock. Cadet McCoy.”

“Ambassador.” If it got any frostier between those two, snow would start falling and they’d have a white Christmas after all.

“Ambassador,” Bones said more warmly, hoping to divert any hostilities. “It’s good to see you again. I’ve gathered the information you wanted, but I hesitated to entrust it to electronic transmission.” He pulled out the data chip and proffered it, but Sarek wasn’t looking at his hand. 

“Thank you, Cadet,” he said, the coldness having grown to encompass McCoy. Sarek stared at McCoy’s chest, his face frozen, purely blank.

Bones suddenly realized Spock’s necklace was visible, hanging over the fabric of his robe; he’d been proud to wear it openly and hadn’t expected to see Sarek until they returned to the compound.

He held himself straight, waiting for the man to finish glaring at it-- and at Spock. 

_“Por shinsarat,”_ Sarek said to Spock, his voice sibilant with disapproval. 

_“Su’lak,”_ Spock snapped, drawing himself straight.

Sarek drew back as if he had been slapped, his mouth pinching into a hard line.

McCoy glanced between the two of them, uncertain what they were saying. “Look, we’re trying to get something important accomplished here. Can we put this personal stuff on the back burner until we ensure there’s gonna be peace in the galaxy and we’ve preserved the Federation as we know it?”

“That is logical.” Sarek’s voice could have frozen helium. “We should depart now.”

McCoy had been through drug dispensary audits that were friendlier and more cozy than the ride home. He handed Sarek the data chip, but they couldn’t review it in the car, which apparently meant it was logical to indulge in more family squabbling. Probably it was efficient not to waste the time. McCoy rolled his eyes.

“You have deprived our family of a valuable social alliance, Spock.”

“I have circumvented your misguided attempt to embrace a potentially dishonorable family member and prevented her from corrupting any future children of our line with her inferior moral values.”

At least it was in English. McCoy winced. 

“T’Pring might not have chosen Stonn as she did, had you remained at the Vulcan Science Academy.”

“It is wise to take that tack rather than questioning my choice of a human mate, or I would be forced to assume you were engaging in an act of hypocrisy. And yet, you are wrong in this assumption as well; Stonn was her preferred companion long before I made my decision.”

McCoy resisted the impulse to bury his head in his hands and pull out double handfuls of his hair. “We were having a pretty decent Christmas, I thought,” he mumbled. “A few presents, some pleasant family time, a nice show.” The compound soon came into view and he was grateful; as soon as they landed, Sarek swept away in one direction and Spock stalked off in the other, leaving McCoy and Amanda standing together awkwardly on the landing platform.

“I just out-logicked two Vulcans at once,” McCoy told her. “It’s a new personal best. Of course, they weren’t at theirs.”

“I do it regularly whenever those two are together,” she sighed. “Sarek’s never forgiven Spock for rejecting the Academy and choosing Starfleet instead.”

“Yeah, well now they have something new to fight about.” He reached for the necklace, tucking it out of sight-- fixing the barn door after the cows got out. _“Me.”_

“It’s cold out here. Let’s go inside and get a cookie and some warm milk before bed.” Amanda shrugged and led him in. “This really isn’t about you, Leonard. It’s about Sarek’s refusal to respect Spock’s choices when they’re different from his own judgment.” 

“Or maybe even when they’re the same,” McCoy said wryly, tugging at the round top of his ear. “I can’t help but think if he’d brought a nice Vulcan girl home, Sarek wouldn’t be so ups-- er. Disapproving. No offense intended.”

“It’s always easier to understand your own choices than to appreciate someone else’s.” She seated him with a plate of gingerbread and a mug of milk, then handed over a little container of powdered nutmeg. “Sarek will come see you after he’s reviewed your information, and he’ll do the job that needs to be done.” She paused. “You make Spock _happy_ , Leonard, in a way I’ve never seen him.” She sat down and dusted her own milk with the spice. “Don’t feel guilty. It’s himself Spock has to live with, not his father. And I believe Sarek will accept his choices in time.”

He felt a little lonely going off to bed without seeing Spock, but when Spock didn’t answer his door, McCoy guessed it was a bad idea to try to wander around and find him on his own. He retreated to his own room and removed the new robes, packing them away gently. 

The necklace he left on. He tucked himself into bed and drifted off with the pendant clasped between his fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Por shinsarat:_ You're out of your mind
> 
>  _Su’lak:_ A third party who trivializes a romantic relationship


	20. Chapter 20

Sarek absented himself the next day, and Spock was wrapped in a sulky snit of epic proportions, so Leonard threw up his hands after breakfast and went out on his own. He’d been meaning to supplement his textbooks on treating Vulcans; this ought to be the perfect place to find resources he could use if he ever had to patch Spock up.

Only it wasn’t. Bookstore owners were polite, but could not point him to useful books, especially not real medical works. A few places had some basic self-care works on topics like ‘how to ensure proper care of your new baby’ and other elementary level stuff, but Bones was after definitive works on anatomy, physiology, psychology, and pathology. He didn’t need something telling him to play the works of Mozart or K’Tireh at an unborn fetus. 

He finally looked up a medical school and went to find its bookstore, only to be told the texts he wanted had no Terran translations. 

“Why not? Vulcans have warp capability; you’re founding members of the Federation. More and more of you are leaving the homeworld. Medics need to be able to treat your race,” he complained. “It’s illogical not to see to the translation of information critical for your people’s well-being!”

The counter clerk just gave him a haughty look and turned to her next-- Vulcan-- customer. 

Bones consulted with some of the actual students, and though he received some odd looks, one woman finally recommended a basic set of texts, which he purchased in spite of the language barrier. He’d let the universal translator have a crack at them; it was better than nothing. And there would be illustrations and diagrams and computer simulations, too; those were a lot more accessible than pure text. 

He didn’t like to confess it, but he was particularly interested in Vulcan male anatomy for reasons of his own. He didn’t have a fucking clue about Vulcan biology, and he was pretty sure he’d need one in the very near future… he hoped.

Three hours and a great deal of frustration later, he remained as ignorant of relevant biological facts as when he’d set out. The diagrams covered everything except reproductive organs; those had been fucking _censored_. Apparently you needed a special key to activate that portion of the text. Bones thought he might scream. 

“Here I thought Terrans had stupid moral hangups,” he growled. “What the _fuck!?_ ”

He emailed the publisher to request a key (and a good translation), providing a short list of his credentials and the professional reasons he needed it-- he wasn’t going into the personal ones, goddammit-- and sat there, fuming, as he considered his next move.

He thought of trying to look up a urologist and asking politely for textual references-- or maybe he could get lucky and locate a sex therapist-- but the day was nearly over, so he took his padd full of frustratingly uninformative texts and went back to the compound, where he shared in an extremely tense dinner. 

Spock and his father barely had a civil word for one another, by Vulcan standards; they spoke icily to one another regarding the weather and little else, barely willing to say “pass the plomeek.”

At least Spock stuck around after dinner. Bones coaxed him into the conservatory and kept him busy for a while naming plants and flowers.

“If it were not high summer, I would take you out into the Forge and show you some of the local flora,” Spock said. “Perhaps another time.”

“I’d like that.” Bones turned to him; Spock stood silhouetted against the trailing aerial roots of a large palm-like tree, all of them dusted in pale pink florets. Bones swallowed hard, moved, and found himself thinking of Japan at cherry blossom time. Spock would look beautiful with sakura petals caught in his hair and exotic oriental architecture visible behind him. Bones wanted to see it all of a sudden; he wanted to be there with Spock in the springtime. 

Tentatively he offered his fingers and Spock accepted. Bones sighed, relief flooding through him along with Spock’s warm presence. It’d been less than 36 hours since they agreed they both felt more than friendship for one another; this was still so new. Still so fragile. 

“I am not at my best in the house of my father,” Spock spoke softly. “I apologize.”

“No, you were fine as long as he wasn’t here.” Bones suddenly ached to curl up with him and just lie close, not even talking: just forget everything and luxuriate in the comfort of a warm body curled against him. “It’s just bad timing that he showed up now.”

“He has requested we accompany him on his ship back to Earth; he will want to speak with you at length.”

Bones sighed. “Three days cooped up in a little warp runabout with your dad, Spock? You two can’t even be civil to one another over the dinner table. Isn’t that a little much?”

“It will only take two days’ travel on the T’Pel.” Spock’s hand moved, fingers twining with his; slowly he stepped closer. “The idea in your mind. I would like to try it.”

McCoy blushed; he still wasn’t completely used to touch telepathy. “You mean cuddling?”

“Yes.”

“Cuddling. With a Vulcan!” Bones protested with false incredulity, teasing, but he let Spock lead them down the hall to his room. “How come I never get holos of moments like this to prove they really happened?” 

“It is enough that we know,” Spock said.

“Yeah,” Bones admitted as the door shut behind them. “You’ve got a point. Two of them, actually.” He stepped forward, very daring, and slid his fingertips against Spock’s ear. The medical books said there was a concentration of nerves just about _there…._

Spock tilted his head, eyes closing, but his breath shook as he drew it in, and his teeth sank in his lower lip.

“You’re very sensitive there.” Bones gave the tip a last delicate caress. “…Maybe I shouldn’t do that if I don’t want things to get out of hand.” Reluctantly Bones dropped his hand to Spock’s shoulder. “I’ve got no idea where you keep any of your erogenous zones, Spock, or what your cultural taboos are aside from the blanket statement ‘don’t ever touch a Vulcan if you can avoid it,’ and Vulcan medical texts just aren’t helping me out the way I’d hoped. So you’ve gotta tell me if I step over any lines and make you uncomfortable. Besides.” He hesitated, a little self-conscious. “I don’t want to rush things, not the way Jim does: here today, bored and gone tomorrow. I want to take time to feel _everything._ ”

Spock’s eyes shone at him, warm and deep. “I am not uncomfortable with your touch.”

“Anything above the waist I’m not allowed to handle?”

“I do not believe so. The face and fingers are considered the most intimate points of contact in the specified region due to psionic access loci. Those in the face are the strongest due to neural proximity to the brain.” Spock demonstrated their position, touching each one with a fingertip. “Telepathic contact is significantly more intense when those points are touched, allowing for a deep meld.” 

“Gotcha. I’ll keep the face-touching to a minimum.” 

“For now.” 

The velvety promise in Spock’s voice sent a delicious shiver down Bones’s spine. “You mean you’ll eventually want to be inside my mind.”

“We will meld when we are ready to bond,” Spock confirmed. “The oneness of the meld is not permanent, but the bond will create lasting telepathic contact between us. The Vulcan phrase translates into Standard as ‘never and always touching and touched.’”

It sounded hot as hell… and absolutely terrifying. “I don’t know what to say to that, Spock.” His voice had dropped an octave. “I mean, I like this.” He reached out and caressed Spock’s fingers, taking two of them in his hand and stroking his thumb across the backs. “I like it a _lot._ But I’m not a perfect Vulcan with a logically structured, orderly brain. I’m a messy human with a lot of emotional baggage. Sometimes you probably won’t want to touch hands, either, much less… be one, or always be stuck in some kind of telepathic contact with me.”

Spock felt serene, accepting, with a lick of rising heat twining through his thoughts like flame as Bones kept touching his hand. “I am able to shield at need. It will be a manageable concern. My own father and mother demonstrate the possibility of success.”

Bones rolled his eyes in spite of himself. “You should’ve at least played the field a little more. Dated some different people instead of settling for the first naked doctor you ever laid eyes on.”

“Leonard, I am beginning to understand the purpose of the human form of kissing,” Spock told him, voice stern, but his eyes danced. “It is clearly a useful way to silence a partner who does not know when to stop talking.”

“Now wait just a--”

Spock demonstrated the applicability of his theory, one hand sliding behind McCoy’s neck and pulling him close. Bones heard himself make the most undignified whimper he could ever remember uttering as Spock’s lips closed over his; his entire limbic system lit up like a sex-seeking supernova. 

When Spock finally pulled back, his lids were heavy, his pupils dilated; he looked half-drugged, his color high, his lips swollen. 

As for Bones, if he looked even half as wrecked as he felt-- hell, too much thinking.

He took a shaky step back and half-fell onto Spock’s bed, flat on his back. Spock followed him down rather more gracefully, dark eyes intent, still fully in control. _No, that won’t do._ Bones reached for Spock’s hand and kissed his fingertips, then licked them.

This time Spock whimpered, a low gasp of shock, and his knees collapsed. Bones groaned as Spock buckled onto him. That was it; this was what he wanted. Ignoring Spock’s weight across his chest, he sucked the fingers into his mouth-- so much for taking it slow!-- and ran his tongue between them.

“Leonard!” Spock gasped against his throat, and Bones took pity on him, pulling off the fingers with a last, loving swipe of his tongue. “If you continue thus, I cannot be held responsible for maintaining the leisurely timetable you have specified--”

“Yes, we were only supposed to be cuddling, I remember. I had to get you down here somehow,” Bones groused, shifting and trying to arrange them both on the bed instead of hanging half-off it. Spock helped, lifting his weight, and by the time they nestled close again, Bones had a little more control over himself. 

“You drew me lying in your bed.”

“Yes, Leonard.” Spock’s eyes searched his, and Bones could feel a little shame in his mind. “To envision you thus represented an ethically gray area, but in the end I decided your presence on the bed was less significant than the actions to be depicted, and restrained myself to--”

“Shut up, Spock,” McCoy breathed, too happy to feel self-conscious. “Draw me however you want. The more ethically gray, the better. ...But I wanna see it.” He nipped at Spock’s fingers. “Anyway, what I was going to say is, you finally have me right where you want me. What are you planning to do about it?”

“I plan to improve my skill at kissing.” 

“Perfect choice.”

Lack of skill plus Vulcan attention to theory and detail plus meticulous scientific experimentation led to long, blissful, sweet kisses that deepened gradually, plus plenty of snuggling between times, with some more-or-less chaste petting above the belt (and just a few object lessons in naughtiness, such as when Bones demonstrated why it wasn’t pointless for male Vulcans to have nipples).

They still lay entangled, nuzzling and communing without words, when the comm unit interrupted, a discreet chime that made Bones flinch.

“Spock, it’s nearly time for supper,” Amanda said-- voice only, Bones noticed. “Can you remind Leonard of the time as well?” Very subtle. He stifled a groan. 

“We will both be there on time,” Spock said politely and terminated the call.

“She thinks we’re hidden away in here having sex,” Bones said. “And you didn’t exactly disabuse her of the notion.”

Spock raised a brow at him. “Should I?”

“She obviously never instilled certain Terran privacy complexes in you,” Bones groaned, rolling out of his arms. “One of them being that it’s awkward for your parents to notice you’re having sex-- or vice versa.”

Spock stiffened and followed him out of bed. “That was an entirely unnecessary mental image, Leonard.”

Bones couldn’t help but snicker. “Let’s straighten up and get out there before she decides she was right. I’m hungry.”


	21. Chapter 21

Amanda winked at Bones when they arrived at the table, and he blushed in spite of himself. Sarek proved far more businesslike. “Cadet McCoy, I am pleased you have accepted my offer of transport back to Earth. As we travel, I hope you and I may consult regarding the information you provided. I have contacted the publicity firm you recommended and am moving to arrange funding for an advertisement campaign.”

“That’s quick work, ambassador.” Bones couldn’t help but notice he never acknowledged Spock’s presence at the table, much less that he would accompany them on the courier voyage, though he had been the one to actually accept the offer. “Spock and I have a number of ideas I hope you’ll find beneficial.”

Sarek merely made a noncommittal noise and began eating.

So it went for the next few days, until the time of their visit was at an end. Matters were little improved aboard the courier, where the close quarters with Sarek turned out to be just as tense and uneasy as Leonard had expected. 

“We will need a face for the advertisement campaign,” Sarek said. “Someone photogenic with legitimate ties to the situation and credentials that lend authority. I confess, I had thought of your roommate, Cadet. His birthright as the son of George Kirk would be worth a great deal of positive sentiment, and by Terran standards, he is quite attractive.”

Bones nodded. “Fair enough. Jim’s a heartbreaker; he’d have everybody who saw him in his pocket by sundown. I’m not sure we’ll be able to persuade him, though. He’s in a relationship with Admiral Marcus’s daughter-- or he was when the holiday began; I can’t be sure of their status now. He warned me that allying with Pike and the peace movement might be a foolish career move.” Just saying it made him frown; that was so unlike Jim that Bones could have throttled him. He ought to know better than to let a pretty face turn his head. 

“His concerns are valid for any member of Starfleet we might ask to function in this capacity,” Sarek conceded. “It is frequently unwise for those who are in a position of little power to align themselves against one who has power over them.”

“I’ll ask him anyway,” Bones said. “I think Captain Pike would step in and try to shield him from any fallout. Worst he can do is say no.”

“Appreciated.” Sarek stood, managing to step past Spock without asking his pardon, though Spock was forced to shrink away to avoid contact. “We should arrive by midday, Cadet.”

McCoy glanced toward Spock, who stared at his computer terminal, his jaw set. 

“Will you excuse me for a moment, Spock? I want to speak to your father privately.”

He ignored Spock’s glance of alarm and stalked out after Sarek, palming the door shut behind him. He was gonna speak his piece, goddammit; he’d had enough. 

“With all due respect, ambassador, I’m not gonna say ‘if you want my help, you’ll be polite to Spock,’” Bones said quietly. “What we’re doing is more important than petty disagreements. I get that. But I will say ‘if you want my respect, you’ll treat your son with more kindness, or even courtesy,’ sir, and I won’t back down.”

Sarek stared at him without speaking for a moment as he raised a surprised brow. “My disagreement with my son predates your relationship by many years, cadet.”

McCoy drew himself up, standing at formal parade rest. “I’m a lot more concerned for your son’s well-being after four months than T’Pring would ever have been if you gave her a lifetime, so I’m making this my business. It's illogical for the two of you to remain hostile over a difference of opinion, and I’ll say the same to him.”

“Noted.” Sarek inclined his head in polite dismissal, absolutely unreadable. “I will consider your words.”

McCoy excused himself with a stiff nod and returned to Spock. “Let’s go get our things together, Spock. I can’t wait to get back to San Francisco so we can relax and unwind.”

To Bones’s relief, the courier entered atmosphere and made planetfall instead of stopping at space-dock, eliminating the need for transfer to a shuttle. They disembarked together, and Sarek paused, visibly uncomfortable.

“I wish you well in your upcoming semester, Cadet McCoy. Spock.”

“Thank you, sir,” Bones said, and elbowed Spock, who unbent himself enough to offer the ta’al in farewell. All right; so it was a work in progress. Well, it was better than nothing. 

A week still remained before the new semester, a glorious responsibility-free week Bones and Spock could use to do any damn thing they wanted. Spock was already checking his email, scanning through messages with disconcerting speed as they proceeded to the site-to-site. Bones entertained vague ideas of vacation destinations Spock might enjoy; Caribbean resorts with white sand, clear water, and plenty of sun, or maybe the black volcanic beaches of Hawaii. Or he might like snow. But what Bones really wanted most was to laze around on the futon in Spock’s apartment and figure out how to get him excited, then make all his dreams come true.

“Cadet Kirk’s petition to retake the Kobayashi Maru has been approved.” Spock regarded his padd with vague distaste. 

“Has it? Well, hell.” McCoy grimaced. “He’ll beg me to be his navigator again, I guess. Wait, why are they CC’ing you on that?”

Spock raised a brow. “I am concerned in this matter because I designed the AI algorithm that governs the test. I will be expected to create the basic scenario to be faced, and the computer will execute the parameters I set.”

“So you’re the man behind the unwinnable scenario.” Bones blinked. “No wonder nobody can beat it.”

“I am flattered you believe so.” Spock inclined his head, gracious. “But the computer is ultimately responsible. I merely designed its parameters to thwart any attempt to overcome the attack. It is, after all, a test of the fortitude with which one faces defeat and death.”

“Yeah, well, Jim’ll face any damn thing you throw at him and give it all the fight he’s got, but the one thing he won’t tolerate is failure. He’ll keep taking that test as many times as the brass lets him, but he’s never gonna cope well with defeat. He is George Kirk’s son, after all.”

“George Kirk bought salvation for his crew at the expense of his own life, and faced death as a consequence of his choice; he was the living embodiment of the Kobayashi Maru.”

“That’s just why Jim won’t accept failure, Spock. He’s lived with the consequences of accepting death all his life, and he refuses to take death lying down. He’s brilliant at overcoming impossible odds. Have you ever seen his simulator drills? That’s what defines his command style; it’s what’s gonna make him the best damn captain who ever came out of Starfleet Academy someday.”

“I have indeed studied his drills; they assisted me in creating a customized scenario for his initial test.” 

“I’m gonna ask you for just one thing-- and it’s not on Jim’s behalf. Please, no more consoles exploding in my face.”

“Noted.” Spock tapped at his padd. “As the test in question is not a measure of your responses, I can arrange that accommodation easily. Should you ever seek command certification, however, I will not be able to include such an indulgent parameter.”

“Message received and understood.”

They beamed into the street near Spock’s apartment and climbed the stairs together; it was bright noonday, but McCoy was space-lagged, yawning in spite of himself. “If you wanna get Jim to accept the unwinnable scenario, you should give him some way to be dramatic about it, like his daddy. At least let him save the crew and die gloriously in the attempt.”

“Unfortunately, Cadet Kirk’s own psychological profile dictates the terms of his test. For the scenario to provide the desired challenge to his particular psychological issues, his defeat must be utter and unredeemed.”

McCoy sighed. Yeah, that profile was just as familiar to him as his own. Spock was right, damn it. If Jim saved his crew it wouldn’t be defeat, not in his eyes.

“No offense, Spock, but it’s no wonder they chose you to program this thing. You’re absolutely merciless.”

“Just as a captain’s enemies may be, upon occasion.”

They went in to put down their bags and McCoy gave the two futons a longing look. “I could use a nap.”

“That would prolong your experience with space-lag.” 

“Do you always have to be right?”

“It is a primary goal of mine, yes.”

“Then we should go shopping, and afterward, we can make out to stay awake.”

“Both are excellent suggestions.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm taking a few days off of posting after this piece due to the holiday. I should return this weekend with more. 
> 
> Coming up next: a big surprise!


	22. Chapter 22

Spock and McCoy trudged back up the hill some hours later with fresh fruit and vegetables and milk and bread. McCoy’s heels were dragging a little with fatigue, but he powered on through it, and he still had enough spirit to lean in and steal a kiss from Spock as he keyed the latch with his palm-- human style; McCoy’s hands were full. 

Spock returned the kiss with interest, his free hand coming up to cradle the back of Bones’s head, but a sound interrupted them and Spock drew back, eyes seeking its source. Bones followed his gaze a beat later and discovered Jim sitting on the stoop of the next building over, tucked against a concrete pillar, staring at them with a look on his face like nothing Bones had ever seen: flat and guarded, with something desperate and wild lurking in the back of his eyes. Pretty damned alarming, actually.

“Jim! I thought you were still up in Canada with the Marcuses.”

Jim barked a dry laugh. “No, we came back yesterday. Transporter records showed you back in town again, Bones; I figured you’d be here.” He got up and stepped forward. “Didn’t mean to interrupt a cozy domestic moment, sorry. I just had news I really wanted to talk to you about. Guess you have news, too.”

It wasn’t Bones’s place to invite Jim up to the apartment; after a moment Spock seemed to realize as much, and he rallied accordingly. “Please step up with us, Cadet Kirk.”

Jim took a few of Bones’s bags and trotted up the stairs after Spock without speaking. Bones fell in behind him, keeping a wary eye on him for signs of meltdown; his trapezius muscles were locked and Bones would bet his ass Jim’s respiratory rate and pulse were both sky-high. He gave all the signs of being on the edge of some spectacular outburst. He’d damn well better not make Spock his target, that’s all Bones had to say about it. 

Whatever it was he wanted to talk about must be pretty important, actually, for him to show up on Spock’s doorstep like this and wait for Bones.

“Spock, if it’s all right with you, I think Jim and I need to talk for a while.” He shrugged, apologetic. “You’ll be OK without me for a few hours?”

“I will anticipate your return.” Spock glanced at Jim with a certain amount of wariness.

“Before midnight and not drunk,” Bones said. “I promise.” He offered his fingers and Spock touched them; they stood there for a long moment, basking in the contact. Long enough to test Jim’s patience, apparently. He shifted his feet noisily and scowled-- before Bones made himself pull away with a regretful sigh. 

“I will accompany you down and key the lock to your hand,” Spock told McCoy, and they did so. Jim didn’t relax even when Spock disappeared back up the steps, though; he stood there staring at Bones like he’d sprouted an extra head.

“You never messaged me about how things were going after that one time,” he said at last. “I thought you’d finally wised up to how you’d let yourself in for a world of hurt… but it looks like he surprised you.” 

“Damnedest thing, Jim. I still don’t half believe it myself.” Bones shook his head, embarrassed. He didn’t even know how to start telling Jim what had happened; it was going to have to wait for Jim to come clean about whatever he had on his mind. “But that’s not what you came here to talk about, now is it.”

“Let’s wait till we get to the bar.” Jim’s scowl deepened. 

Jim picked a place Bones wouldn’t have set foot in if you paid him: an upscale vape joint with all sorts of legal and illegal intoxicants; a noxious cloud of foul-smelling fog rolled out any time someone opened the door. Bones winced. What the hell was Spock gonna think? He followed Jim in, though, and waited while he flirted a corner booth out of the waitress. They sat well away from the speakers, but the music was still loud enough to drive nails, and Bones hoped his lip-reading skills hadn’t gone south for the winter, because he couldn’t hear himself think with his ears each being driven out through the external auditory meatus on the opposite side of his head.

“So what the hell’s wrong with you?” He mouthed against the din when they were finally settled in their booth and Jim had a vape in his mouth. He didn’t even want to know what was in it; Jim’s eyes were dilating and looked glassy. Bones could feel his own head spinning just from the second-hand vapor intake. 

Jim looked at him for a long moment; then his mouth opened and his lips moved.

“Who’s getting buried?” Bones scowled at Jim’s mouth.

 **”Married!”** Jim actually yelled it loud enough that Bones made out the word through the driving beat.

“Married? Who’s getting married?” Bones blinked. **_“...You?!”_**

Jim nodded, staring down at the vape cylinder in his hands, and Bones sat there, stunned, as the song finished and switched out for something a little less deafening. 

“Carol and I. Are getting. Married.” Jim repeated, one thumbnail fiddling with the mouthpiece where it attached to the atomizer. 

“You proposed to Carol.” Bones picked his jaw up off the floor long enough to speak.

“That’s the way it works, yes.”

“Her old man didn’t do it for you?”

Jim scowled. “That’s not very damn funny.”

“There’s no way you… Jesus, Jim, you’ve barely known her a month!” Bones sat back, folding his arms over his chest. “You’re out of your corn-fed mind.” He glared at Jim, who glared back, strobe lights flashing stark patterns over his face. “You don’t do something like this lightly, damn it!”

Jim’s lips moved again, and Bones didn’t make out the words; he leaned forward. “What?”

“We’re gonna have the ceremony right after graduation.”

“Jesus, Jim!” 

“You said that already.” He took another hit. Bones watched him; he sure didn’t look like a happy bridegroom. He looked like he was on his way to the funeral Bones had inadvertently predicted.

“Call it off, Jim. Take my advice. You’re not ready to get married.”

“And you’re the expert on successful marriage.”

Bones bristled. “I’m a damn expert on _un_ -successful marriage, and this one has ‘divorce’ written all over it from the get-go.”

“Some supportive friend you are.” Jim exhaled a stream of vapor toward the ceiling, where it mingled with the multicolored, hovering cloud. 

“Dammit, Jim--”

“So what happened with you and Spock? He any good in bed?”

Bones bristled at the tone. “None of your damn business.”

“So he’s an actual ice cube, and you admit you're dating him now, but you aren’t sleeping together, because all of a sudden you don’t care about having sex.”

“He’s not like that.”

“Oh, yeah? What _is_ he like?”

It was obviously a diversion; his announcement made, Jim was running for cover, throwing up a spirited defense in the process. But he’d insulted Spock, and that pissed Bones off enough that he took the bait. 

“He’s not like Joss. She was hot on the outside and cold on the inside. Spock… he’s cold on the outside, and…” Bones stared down at his hands, not liking the twist of Jim’s lips. “He’s warm on the inside. Nice. ...Sweet. Loving.”

“Nice. _Sweet._ ” Jim took a deep drag. “Yeah, that’ll play well in bed.”

“Bed’s not the only thing that matters.”

“You really _haven’t_ slept with him, then.” Jim eyed him sidelong, shrewd even through the glassy intoxication. 

“Since when is that any of your business?”

“You’ve abandoned our friendship for some guy you’re not even fucking.”

“The hell I did!” Bones snapped. “We had a weird semester, yeah, but it wasn’t me who hung a goddam dirty sock on the room door for two whole weeks in December, Jim!”

“Why am I not surprised?” Jim bypassed the attack neatly. “You’re just as gun-shy as he is. You two have been circling around each other since September, and you don’t even know whether the guy’s got a dick.”

Bones tried to keep his temper. “You’re stoned, Jim. It’s pretty reasonable to assume Vulcans have a humanoid semen delivery system, not that it’s any of your goddam business.”

“A generic humanoid semen delivery system. Well. How exciting is that?” Jim shook his head. “Oh wait, it isn’t.” 

"It'd be just as good as yours!" Bones tried to interrupt him, but Kirk wasn’t finished. 

“How the hell can you get serious with an alien guy who may not even have a dick, Bones? Tell me that.”

The coal of anger in Bones’s chest ignited; rage mode _on_. 

“That’s what I call funny,” he said, plowing right over Jim’s next sentence. “Last time I checked, for all your sniping at me for not dating you instead of Spock, you don’t ever actually go out with someone who _has_ a dick. Or am I mistaken about Carol Marcus’s biological gender? I spent three years married to someone who didn’t have a dick and our sex life was great until she decided to spread for another guy.” He tried to rein it in, taking a deep breath. “You’re a fine one to judge me for being careful and taking it slow, Jim. Getting engaged to a woman you hardly know on a lark over Christmas? It takes more than bumping uglies to make a functional marriage. What the hell happens when you head off into space, huh? Will she even be assigned to the same ship? What are you gonna do when her dad starts that war with the Klingons? Are you gonna stand right there next to her and support him in it?”

“You don’t know anything about whether I’d date a man. You never gave me a look.”

God, Jim was _fucked up._ “What kind of incentive did it give me to look when you were busy getting it off with every other girl you met, starting the day I told you my name? Now you’re engaged. You couldn’t date me even if I was free,” Bones shot right back. “I swear to God, Jim, if you went off and proposed to that girl some night when you were drunk because you thought you were gonna teach me a lesson, it’s not worth it! Break it off, I’m telling you, or you’ll make a mistake you’re gonna regret for the rest of your life.” He reached out and tried to put his hand over Jim’s, but Jim pulled away, his eyes simmering with fury. 

“That’s not why I proposed.” Jim signaled for a waitress and ordered a drink. Bones grimaced. Booze on top of whatever was in the vape? That was trouble waiting to happen. But at least Jim was quiet now, scowling down at the dirty tabletop and his fingers lying across the edge of it. The music wound down, and he spoke into the pause before the next song cranked up. “Carol’s pregnant.”

Bones opened his mouth and for once in his life, he found no words waiting for him there. He shut it and tried again. “I gave you a damn contraceptive shot myself.”

“Yeah, and she had hers, too. Doesn’t change the facts.”

Bones tilted his head back and stared up into the smoke, wishing he’d ordered a drink of his own in spite of what he’d promised Spock. Sometimes the damn shots failed, yeah, but the odds against two concurrent failures were astronomical. 

He sat there, stunned, his brain picturing Jim’s kid and Joanna on a playdate. Joanna was whacking Little Jim over the head with a doll. …Good for her; beat some sense into the kid from an early age. Unlike Bones, who’d clearly started the attempt way too late for it to have a prayer in hell of working.

“I didn’t have my dad in my life. I’ll be in this kid’s life if it kills me,” Jim said, and his jaw set with pure stubborn defiance. 

Bones felt the impact dully, through deadened senses, as if he’d taken a gut punch stone drunk. He thought again of Joanna and felt himself shut down somewhere deep inside. Jim was still talking, but now he wasn’t listening, because his kid and Jim’s kid weren’t ever going to have a fucking playdate. Bones’s kid didn’t have a fucking dad to arrange it, because obviously Bones was a fucking piece of shit by Jim’s standards. 

“Good luck with that.” He didn’t know he was getting up until he was already standing. He wanted Spock with a sudden, desperate yearning; he needed calm. He needed to feel loved and accepted for who he was.

He fixed Jim with a level stare, too hurt to feel. “Let me know when they give you a big trophy that says ‘father of the year.’ I’ll get down and grovel at the feet of the master.”

“Damn it, Bones--”

He didn’t wait to hear the rest. 

The street outside was cold, but the air off the bay was blissfully, bitterly fresh, and it soon scoured the vapor out of Bones’s lungs. He set out walking, avoiding the site-to-site. It was four or five miles’ hard walk back to Spock’s, but he wanted to be so exhausted when he got there he would fall into a dead sleep right away, so he wouldn’t have to think. Maybe he wouldn’t even dream.


	23. Chapter 23

It was nearly midnight by the time Bones slunk up the hill to Spock's building, and thank heavens Jim wasn’t standing at the stoop waiting for him. He couldn’t have handled it if he were. He laid his hand on the lock and trudged up the stairs; his eyes felt grainy and he reeked.

Spock was waiting, clad in jeans and a T-shirt, but Bones couldn’t even spare half an eye for how good he looked. 

“I’m a wreck, Spock. I’m gonna get a shower and turn in.” He started to trudge past, refusing himself the luxury of a touch, even though he’d been longing for it all evening. Spock didn’t need the fucking cocktail of self-loathing that was Bones’s brain right now. 

“James Kirk came here looking for you after you departed from the bar.” Spock spoke neutrally. “He said he wished to apologize for his insensitive remark and said he did not mean it in the way you responded to it.”

“James Kirk can take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut.” Bones doggedly kept walking toward the shower. “I walked home. Took a while. Thanks for getting him to leave, though.” That little miracle must’ve taken a metric ton of dynamite and a twenty-mule team. Possibly also a Starfleet security detail. “Which jail did you have him put in, military or civilian?”

“The threat was sufficient.”

Bones grimaced and vanished into the bathroom, where he indulged in a water shower, scrubbing himself until he thought he might take the hide off along with the stink of vape and self-hatred. 

When he was finally done he struggled into a T-shirt and boxer shorts and staggered out to collapse onto his futon, so tired he didn’t spare much thought for Spock, who sat quietly at the kitchen bar, watching him. 

“Good night, Leonard.”

“‘Night.” His eyelids shut and he was gone.

When he woke up it was nearly noon; sun streamed in through all the windows. He wasn’t hungover, so the bright light didn’t hurt. Bones turned over onto his back and lay blinking for a long moment, listening to Spock tapping quietly away at his computer terminal. 

Spock still wore the same T-shirt and jeans as before; apparently he’d sat up all night doing whatever he was doing. 

“Whatcha up to?” Bones asked, voice thick with sleep.

“I am programming an AI simulation,” Spock said, tones precise. “Shall I start the percolator for your morning coffee?”

“That would save a human life. Thanks.” Bones watched him step to the kitchen to fill the reservoir, stretching to release muscles tense from sitting. Spock’s jeans rode low on his hips and his T-shirt slipped up, revealing a pale crescent of belly and a dark line of hair teasing away into the waistband.

Bones swallowed hard; after a good night’s sleep, his body was primed and ready. He didn’t move, though; with consciousness, guilt came flooding back alongside all the nasty emotional fallout of his fight with Jim. 

“Jim and Carol Marcus are getting married. He knocked her up,” Bones told Spock, concise.

Spock raised a brow, waiting for the remainder. 

“He’s gonna do it so he can be a father to his kid. Because according to him, that’s what any decent human being would obviously do-- stay in a relationship with a woman even if it’s not gonna work, all for the kid’s sake.”

“Such an implication is both insensitive and inaccurate.” 

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” The coffee started to bubble and Bones sat up, scratching his belly. God, if it hadn’t been for Jim being such a fucking drama queen, he and Spock would’ve had a nice evening making out instead of Bones getting dragged off to play father confessor and getting kicked in the teeth for his trouble. 

“By the terms of your own summation of human romantic relationships, James Kirk should not marry Carol Marcus,” Spock passed his verdict, filling a mug and bringing it to Bones. “He does not love her.”

“What basis do you have for that conclusion?” Never mind that Bones agreed; he was curious to find out why Spock thought so.

“He is in love with someone else,” Spock said simply. 

“Not Jim Kirk.” Bones snorted, clasping the mug in both hands and breathing the steam. “Not fuck-’em-and-leave-’em Jim Kirk. He liked sleeping with Gaila, sure, but his eye was already on half-a-dozen others.” Jim wasn’t in love with him; hell no. He was just pissed off about Spock, that’s all.

“I believe he has made choices he regrets.” Spock stood by Bones, clasping his hands behind his back, strangely formal. 

“Good coffee.” Bones took a cautious sip, welcoming the bitterness on his tongue. “God, what the hell am I gonna do about that stupid bastard, Spock?”

“There is a human expression, Leonard. He has made his bed. Now he must lie in it.” When the coffee was nearly gone, Spock sank down at his side, taking the mug, and tried a cautious sip. Making a face, he handed it back. 

“There’s too much caffeine in this stuff for it to be good for your metabolism,” Bones chided him, very gentle. “Too much for me, too, if you want to know the truth.” He took another swallow, profoundly aware of Spock’s nearness. 

“The residual taste of it in your mouth would be unpleasant, were it not also in my own,” Spock said simply, then took the mug away and kissed him.

OK, so there were better things than morning coffee. Who knew?

“I would’ve brushed my teeth for you, Spock.”

“I did not wish to wait.” He pressed Bones gently over and lay down next to him, stroking a warm hand along his arm, then caressed his hand gently.

“Let’s try something,” Bones suggested, watching Spock’s eyes darken as their fingers twined. He leaned forward, kissing Spock slowly and enjoying his soft response, moving their lips chastely together. 

Then he licked along the seam of Spock’s closed mouth, making him stiffen with surprise. _Open up,_ he urged, and Spock tentatively obeyed, letting him in. 

Spock blinked, tensing a little, but Bones kept it light, teasing at his lips and teeth without pushing deeper, until he eased and accepted the contact. In and out, soft and sweet: he suckled Spock’s lower lip for a long moment, caressing its fine, perfect lines with his tongue. Then he retreated, coaxing, inviting-- and Spock followed. Bones touched their tongues together, welcoming him, and Spock uttered a soft, pleased sound. His weight came down on Bones as he pressed in, sliding their tongues together-- pushing in with his tongue as if this had been all his idea to start with, clumsily trying to lick everywhere at once.

Bones pushed him back very slightly. “Easy,” he soothed Spock. “No rush. I’m not going anywhere.” He managed to get his left hand up and thread it lightly into Spock’s soft black hair, tousling it just for the pleasure of seeing him rumpled. “Try again,” he said, and lifted his mouth. This time Spock opened readily, letting him in, and Bones showed him how to tease, fluttering his tongue against Spock’s, touching his palate and teasing there for a moment, returning to stroke in and out, lazy and strong and sensual, like the very best kind of fucking. 

They traded control back and forth as Spock gained skill and confidence; slowly they shifted, Spock’s body encroaching on his bit by bit until he lay on his back with Spock’s whole body cradled between his thighs. The motion of the kisses rocked Spock against him, and Bones couldn’t hide his arousal; he was desperately hard, but he didn’t feel any answering hardness next to his, and it made him nervous.

“Those anatomy texts would come in handy right about now, if I’d ever heard back from that damn publisher.” He drew back at last, trying to get a little distance so he could calm down before he came without even being touched. “Getting a little hot and heavy here, Spock-- at least, I am. Let’s cool it down at little.”

Spock made a little protesting murmur, but he pulled back as well after a last nuzzle at Bones’s lower lip. “I assure you, I am aroused as well.” His eyes were so dark they were almost black. 

“Yeah? Good.” He’d felt it, at least in Spock’s mind, but he was used to physical cues. 

“Unlike yours, my genitalia is internally stored.” Spock seemed to have gained a great deal of confidence, nuzzling his way over to Bones’s ear and nibbling at the lobe. 

“Like a human female’s?” Bones asked, hesitant. 

“I am not familiar enough with human female genitals to venture a comparison.”

“...Good.” Bones groaned, rocking his hips up against Spock.

Spock rolled away a little, and Bones gasped as his hand slid across Bones’s lap, conducting a quick, pleasurable exploration. “I believe mine are not dissimilar to this,” Spock said, pressing the heel of his hand against Bones’s cock and sliding upward. “Though they will not emerge unless specific conditions are met.”

“God, please either do that again or stop it right now,” Bones gasped. 

Spock’s eyes widened with tolerant amusement. “Which do you prefer?” His hand lingered.

“We should have breakfast. Brush our teeth. Get out of bed before it’s actually dark.” He should feel bad about lying in bed with Spock, getting it on, while Jim was off somewhere suffering. He _should._

Spock raised a brow at him. “You are making no moves in that direction.”

“Like I could with you on top of me? You weigh a ton.” Bones pulled Spock back over him, dragging him down for a kiss and biting softly at his lip. “Let’s play doctor. I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours.”

Spock hesitated to answer-- Bones could feel the uncertainty in his mind, though he returned the kiss with interest. 

“You don’t have to, Spock.” He had to stop himself from caressing Spock’s cheek, remembering the telepathic contact points almost too late. “I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable.”

“It is not that.” Spock shifted them to their sides. “I am merely… unsure of the conditions that must be met.”

“Unsure.” Bones drew back, frowning. “You’re… unsure what it would take to give you an erection?”

“Precisely.”

Bones savaged his lower lip, considering the information. That must mean he’d never even-- but--

“No, I have not,” Spock disclosed, his expression receding into defensive neutrality. 

“No wonder those fucking textbooks are censored. They’re so uptight they won’t even tell _you_ about your own sexuality? Didn’t your daddy ever give you ‘the talk?’ ...Of course he didn’t.”

“I always assumed the experience of erection would be involuntary and would occur naturally at the appropriate time.” Spock didn’t meet his gaze. “As it did for you.” 

“Most humans experience erections from a very early age, and usually start having involuntary nocturnal emissions during puberty.” Bones explained gently. “We have to struggle with unwanted erections; it gets pretty embarrassing sometimes. I’ve been used to it being that easy for so long it surprises me to hear you’re different. We’ll figure it out, Spock.” He ran his fingers gently along the shell of Spock’s ear, stroking the cluster of nerves that had affected him so powerfully once before. “You’re definitely aroused and receptive; I can feel it. It’s just a matter of figuring out the right cues to get your body caught up with your mind.” God, he hoped it wasn’t pheromonal; it’d be hard as hell to quantify and replicate the body chemistry of a sexually receptive Vulcan female. 

Spock’s eyelids drooped as McCoy’s fingertips circled, and he sighed, surrendering to pleasure. 

Goddammit, if Bones couldn’t figure out how to get Spock off, he’d fucking _walk_ all the way back to Vulcan and stuff a library full of textbooks right down those uptight bastards’ throats. He’d fucking call and ask _Amanda_ what to do if he had to.

“Your determination is reassuring.” Spock’s voice rumbled, deep and lazy.

“Do you want to try now?” McCoy kept stroking; the simple touch apparently turned Spock into a soft, sultry heap of purring Vulcan goo. Maybe it was something just this easy. 

The door chime chose that moment to ring, and McCoy dropped his hand with a heartfelt curse. “Knowing my luck, that’s either your dad or Jim. Want to make a wager before we check?”

“It is James Kirk.” Spock spoke with firm finality, the drowsy sensuality vanishing from his mind in the wink of an eye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So now y'all are upset with me again, but hopefully for a less awful reason this time. X-D Come back tomorrow to see if Spock's right!


	24. Chapter 24

It _was_ Jim, and Bones groaned, dropping his forehead to thump on the table. 

He keyed the entry speaker from his padd. “I’m fine, I’m safe, and I’m not talking to you until I’ve had an apology.” He muted it again and ignored the repeated, insistent chiming as he got himself a fresh cup of coffee and drank it deliberately.

“He cannot apologize if you will not listen to him, Leonard.” Spock looked at him quietly, something wary veiled in his eyes. 

“Let him stew a while, Spock. It’ll do him good.” Bones felt guilty in spite of knowing it was true; Jim was hurting and confused and his life was totally fucked up; he needed his best friend. 

A tap came at the interior door, and Bones jerked his head upright, glaring daggers at the innocent panel. 

“Cadet Kirk has hacked the building’s security system and effected entry,” Spock announced from his seat at the main computer console.

Bones stalked over and flung the door open. “Damn it, Jim! Get your sorry butt in here so I can skin it alive,” he snarled. 

Jim slunk in, looking like hammered ass, raising both hands defensively to keep McCoy from braining him with the coffee mug. “I’m sorry, Bones, OK? It was a case of running my mouth without thinking. I was stoned. I didn’t mean it as an insult; your case is totally different. Please.” Jim’s gaze slid to the rumpled futon, then back to Bones’s state of undress. His mouth pinched. 

“You think so? You've got another think coming." Bones scowled. "Don’t marry Carol. Set up a custody arrangement now, before she starts to hate you. That’s my advice.” Bones poured a fresh mug of coffee and slapped it down in front of Jim; he looked like he’d been out wandering all night. “I ought to let Spock call the damn police, Jim; hell, the building’s probably already done it automatically. The hell were you thinking? Breaking and entering’s a felony offense.”

“I have canceled the automatic call to the authorities and reset the security sensors,” Spock said quietly. 

Jim glanced up at him, blinking with genuine surprise. “Thanks.” 

“Wouldn’t do for your future father-in-law to have to bail you out before you even tie the knot.” Bones sighed. 

“I’ve been a jackass, Bones.” Jim gave him a steady look; Bones knew what it cost him to make the confession in front of Spock. “I’m sorry. For everything I did wrong, all last semester. I promise I’ll do better. What do I need to do to make things good again?” Jim looked at him pitifully out of those perfect baby-blue eyes that could melt steel at forty paces. 

“Ask me again in a day or two after I cool off. For now, give me some space.” Bones wasn’t inclined to forgive and forget immediately. Not this time. 

“Whatever you want, Bones.” Kirk sipped his coffee, incredibly polite and quiet for once, folding around the mug, trying not to take up space inside Spock's apartment. 

It was shitty timing, but Bones recalled there was something he wanted Jim to do, something worth calling in the guilt trip for. “Actually I do want something, Jim. I want you to help Ambassador Sarek advertise the peace initiative.” 

Kirk went just as still and wary as Spock. “I... I can’t do that, Bones. I'll do just about anything else.”

“Captain Pike would back your move and you know it.” Bones paused, eyeing him. “You remember Captain Pike? Mentored you into Starfleet? Believes in you?”

Jim stood up, his jaw set. “I understand where you’re coming from, and I wish I could do it, Bones-- really I do-- but there are urgent reasons why I can’t.” He set down the half-empty mug and sighed. “I’m sorry about what I said-- and for having to say no. Thanks for the coffee. I’ll let you have your space.”

Bones watched him go without getting up. When Jim was gone, he let his head sag into his hands. _Fuck._ Jesus, he loved Jim like a brother, but the man was infuriating. He could probably drive even a Vulcan into fits of murderous rage.

“You regret dating a messy emotional human yet?” He raised his head apologetically to look at Spock.

“No, Leonard.” Spock’s response was instant and firm. 

McCoy hoped that would last. “Thanks; that’s a relief. I don’t think I could stand it if both of you were mad at me at the same time. Or if I were mad at both of you. Same thing.” He scrubbed a hand through his hair and cast around for something better to think about.

“I’m gonna get on the horn again to that medical textbook publisher-- I’m a doctor, dammit, and a xenobiologist. I need that information for professional reasons, not just personal ones. Injuries don’t stop and censor themselves in a neat rectangle around the groin! I might have to treat you for a lower abdominal injury someday.”

“Indeed, Leonard. I have checked your prospective post-graduation assignment; you are slated to serve under Dr. Puri aboard the Enterprise. If you are well-versed in Vulcan anatomy, you will indeed be responsible for my treatment, should I become injured.”

“I’ll drop Dr. Puri a note, then, and see if he’ll put in a good word for me.” Bones’s fingers started flying. “Maybe his rank will help.”

While Bones busied himself, Spock brought out his Christmas gift and began experimenting with the water soluble inks; when McCoy looked, he’d managed to produce a rather pleasant facsimile of the bay in summer, diluting the inks to produce watercolor washes and highlighting the scene with touches of gold.

“I should’ve got you some paints, too. When’s your birthday?” Bones leaned over Spock’s shoulder, stretching out his back and legs after spending so long hunched over, dealing with email. 

“January sixth is the closest Terran approximation to the date of my birth,” Spock said. "Which should actually change each year, since Vulcan's solar cycle is only 0.91 the duration of Earth's. However, my mother's family found it easier to remember a consistent date in the Terran calendar."

Bones chuckled. “We’ll find an art store and set you up.” He debated the dubious wisdom of baking Spock a chocolate cake, but decided to get him just a few super-expensive dark chocolate truffles instead. 

He made a secret vow to himself that he’d arrange another extra-special birthday present for Spock, too: his first orgasm, signed, sealed, and delivered personally by Leonard H. McCoy. And if it happened a few days early, that’d be just fine.

The door chimed again around four; this time an unfamiliar face appeared when Spock checked the video screen.

“I’m Kiran Hannigan, representing PRevolutions,” the woman said, smiling. “Ambassador Sarek gave me this address. Is Leonard McCoy available for consultation?”

They buzzed her in and Spock prepared tea while Bones sat down for a consultation he hadn’t expected and wasn’t really prepared for.

“No, I’m sorry, Ma’am, I wasn’t able to secure the spokesman the ambassador wanted. I’m afraid he thinks it might compromise his career.”

“That’s unfortunate. Both Ambassador Sarek and Captain Pike have vowed to protect any Starfleet personnel we eventually use. Of course, we’ll need several speakers to appeal to different demographics. But…” she tilted her head at McCoy thoughtfully. “Actually, Cadet, have you considered becoming a spokesman yourself?”

“No, ah, really, no… I’m just a simple country doctor,” he backpedaled, panicky. 

“You’re very hologenic is what you are.” She held up a viewfinder, clucking with satisfaction. “I think you’d do quite nicely, doctor.”

“No, I’m not good-looking. That’s Jim Kirk you’re thinking of.” Goddammit, all he needed was _another_ reason to kill Jim. 

“A simple country doctor? You’re a Starfleet cadet; you’re a handsome, up-and-coming young xenomedic who’ll be right on the front lines should hostilities occur. Have you ever dealt with casualties of violence?”

“Leonard once volunteered his services to assist victims of the labor violence riots on Daridian II,” Spock said, a most unwelcome contribution. Apparently he had McCoy’s entire personal history file memorized.

“Damn it, Spock. I was just a resident. It was for academic credit.”

“Still, you’ve seen and treated horrific combat injuries.” She made a note on her padd. “Leonard, I’d like to schedule a shoot for your first spot.”

Trapped, Bones shot Spock an exasperated look and let her schedule the appointment. Looked like it was time to put his money where his mouth was.


	25. Chapter 25

By the time Kiran left, it was late and Bones felt completely unnerved. He and Spock ordered delivery Greek and sat eating with the lights out as the cityscape lit up beyond the window. 

“I feel like I’m getting in over my head here, Spock,” Bones admitted. “It’s a long way from plotting revolution to becoming a poster boy. I’d feel better if this was happening after graduation.”

“Captain Pike will provide protection.” Spock sounded quite confident. “He is an honorable man.”

“Yeah, but Alexander Marcus ranks him, and he gives me the creeps. He already knew who I was, you remember?” Bones shuddered. "This publicity campaign won't improve his opinion of me very much."

“Be grateful you are not positioned to become his son-in-law.”

“I am. I thank God for it.”

“My father would be flattered to hear you find him so highly preferential as a family member.” 

Bones flushed. “Was that a proposal? Don’t answer that. Hush.” He held up a hand swiftly. “I’m starting to figure out how you work. You’re a sneaky bastard. Based on how long we were dating before I knew about it, you’ve probably already got the date set and the commitment ceremony planned. You’re jumping the gun almost as fast as Jim, dammit.” He relented, looking at Spock’s still, cautious face. “Don’t give me that puppy-dog look, Spock. It’s flattering, but I’d rather get a chance to say yes over wine and roses after we’ve both had a decent amount of time to decide whether this is actually the good idea you seem to think it is.”

“I will ensure that there are sufficient amounts of both wine and roses for you, Leonard.” Spock spoke very softly, his eyes intense.

Bones flushed; he was quite aware he’d more or less already agreed. Jesus, he’d have a lot easier time being pissed off with Jim if the bastard wasn’t right all the damn time. How could he be this willing to marry Spock if they didn’t have a clue whether they were even sexually compatible yet?

He tried to cover his embarrassment by carrying their dishes to the sink. 

“You are fearful of commitment.” Spock stepped in behind him and set gentle hands on his shoulders. 

“Damn right I am. I’ve been divorced once already. And don’t go telling me ‘so have I.’ Joss and I fucking shredded each other, dammit, and I lost my little girl. It’s not a good idea to jump in too fast. If you won’t protect yourself in this, then I’m gonna protect you, Spock.” 

To hell with the dishwater; he raised a dripping hand to cover Spock’s, dragging it down onto his chest. “Your people get sealed into a relationship with someone when you’re still just children, then you’re both all unemotional and force it to look like it works, but I’m willing to bet there are a lot of miserable Vulcan couples out there who’d rather not be in the same room together. That’s not good enough for me; humans don’t work that way. If we’re not both gonna be happy, we’re at least not gonna be stuck together in misery because we got in a rush.” 

Spock kissed his neck, the heat of his lips making McCoy shiver. He scowled. “Are you even listenin-- God, Spock!” The wet velvet stroke of Spock’s tongue against his ear made his knees go weak. 

“I am listening.” Spock nuzzled his dry lips against the wet mark of his tongue. “I too fear, Leonard.” His voice was hushed, almost tentative. “I seek what you see as premature confirmation of our commitment due to fear you will decide you prefer James Kirk over me. I fear you will offer yourself as a means to save him from his engagement. His wish that you would do so is quite plain to be seen.”

Bones tipped his head back, tears stinging at the corners of his eyes, and laced his wet fingers through Spock’s dry ones. “Rest easy. I love Jim like a brother; we fight like cats and dogs sometimes, but that’s just because we’re close enough we can. Jim’s… I can’t really explain. He’s got a charisma to him that sweeps you up, even when he’s an asshole. He’s my best friend and I love him. I always will. But he’s still a kid, Spock. Jim and I’d be just as bad for each other as he and Carol are gonna be. I can’t save him this time.” 

Bones turned his head, awkwardly nuzzling Spock’s cheek. “You think I’m afraid of romantic commitment? You sure as hell don’t know James Tiberius Kirk. He makes me look like you by comparison.” Bones straightened up, drawing a deep breath. “He’s committing to his kid more than to Carol. He’s got a lot of growing up to do before he’s ready to settle down with anybody, if he ever will be-- he didn’t exactly have the best relationship models growing up.” He let Spock’s hand go. “Let me finish up here, then we can work on helping you feel better.”

“Thank you, Leonard.” Spock answered quietly and released him, moving away to the window, where he knelt in meditation and gazed out over the city. 

Bones finished the dishes-- moving a little slower than he might; he had a lot to think about. _Spock, afraid. Afraid I’ll leave him._ The knowledge made him shiver with a strange sort of sympathetic pain that bordered on both terror and delight as he considered how much Spock valued their connection. 

He rinsed and dried his hands and went to Spock when the dishes were stacked away in their cabinets; his heart beat swiftly in his chest and his breath came too shallowly. 

Bones turned off the overheads, leaving them in dimness, and Spock turned to face him, gazing up, the soft light reflected in his eyes. 

“I think maybe I understand what you need,” Bones said, his voice trembling a little. He knelt in front of Spock, their knees touching. “You can come in,” he whispered, and reached for Spock’s hand, bringing it to his face. He kissed Spock’s palm. “See what I really feel instead of just dabbling around the edges.”

Spock’s hand stirred; he searched Bones’s expression as the first gentle tendrils of his mind pressed in, tentatively seeking deeper contact. What he saw seemed to satisfy him and resolve formed; Spock reached for him gently with both hands. Bones let them settle on his face, the fingers pressing at the contact points Spock had described for him so long ago.

He could feel Spock’s pulse through the contact, fluttering alien-swift; his own heart tried to match it, then settled into a new rhythm, one beat for every four of Spock’s, as close to synchrony as he could manage. The fingers on his face felt like roots; he could sense Spock’s will flowing through them and burrowing in, a painless sensation, very strange, as if little feelers were probing him in a thousand places that shouldn’t have nerves to register the sensation. 

“My mind to your mind.” Spock’s voice resonated in his head. “My thoughts to your thoughts.”

Reality shifted, flexing, and came back doubled and foreign but with a warmth that kept Bones from flailing at the sudden depth. His eyes flew open, but he saw hazel instead of brown-- his own eyes, his own face, melting away to become Spock’s suddenly as he slid back inside his own consciousness, still aware of Spock meshed with him, his mind burning like a star, pure symmetry and structure over ineffable sweetness. He sensed Spock’s matching perception of himself, a torrent of fire and uncertainty, passion and pain and love.

Love, unmistakable, twined intricately between them. Spock’s strangely-formed, newly-familiar emotion proved unimaginably deep, a wellspring as intense and tumultuous as Leonard’s own human feelings. The two combined into a torrent strong enough to wash them both away; instead, it washed them together. Love and fear and pain and hope mingled between them, source all but indistinguishable, in a way that made mere sex seem tawdry and shallow by comparison.

Spock withdrew, separating slightly, his fingers trembling against Bones’s face.

“You even think of yourself by the name he gave you,” Spock said softly, his voice strangely fragile. “It is who you are.”

Bones protested without words, giving images instead-- he was also a million things made by Spock: their first moments together, that first shy, tentative day in Alcatraz as their personal orbits finally started to spiral in and tighten around one another. The moment he had first recognized the depth of emotion visible in Spock’s eyes; the moment he had first bought them breakfast and taken it to the apartment for Spock, feeling pride in caring for him. The scratch of Spock’s pencil soothing him, the dark curve of Spock’s head bent over his sketching gradually becoming part of his heart’s home. Spock’s lips lifting in a faint smile and the way it made Bones’s heart race; Spock’s sketches driving their message of love deep into his heart, giving him courage. The warmth of Spock’s fingers against his own. The way he had sat with Jim, hearing Jim’s heart-cry, and yet still yearned to be back with Spock again, safe and at peace. ...The moment Spock had offered his love and named him _ashayam._

“We are _ashayam.”_ Voices mingled, one thought. One heart, sunk deep and twined together, and Bones really did have to look the word up as soon as he could remember, but for now… for now the simple feeling was enough, pure and tender between them. 

He opened his eyes again, and this time he saw Spock at once; he felt the wetness of tears drying on his cheeks. 

“If you wished it, I would bond us now.” That rich voice caressed him with love, soft and tender. “But you are not fully prepared. I will not do so until you give me leave.”

It was tempting; Bones had to give him that. He hovered on the verge of begging Spock to make the bond and link them permanently. He wanted it, craved it, needed it. But Spock was right. He felt enough, but he was still afraid.

Spock withdrew his hands and Bones reeled, nearly falling forward. His knees hurt like hell.

“If we’re gonna do this again, we really need a couch. My knees won’t take much of this floor.” 

Spock gave him a hand up and Bones rose, groaning; he could still feel the echo of the meld through their clasped hands: the contact was deeper now, easier. 

“Come to bed, _ashayam._ ” Time had passed with amazing speed during the meld; the moon had risen, illuminating the bay with silvery light.


	26. Chapter 26

If Spock longed for them to sleep in the same bed together, that was absolutely A-OK with Bones. He touched Spock’s hand softly in agreement and went to prepare, emerging to find Spock waiting for him, his face half in moonlight, half the bed empty and a fresh pillow waiting. He hesitated, inexplicably shy, then went to Spock, crossing pools of light and shadow on the floor until his toes touched the trailing edge of the sheet. 

Spock opened the coverlet and Bones slipped in next to him, settling into his arms like coming home. They curled in slowly, finding out how to fit together. Bones reveled in the tender haze of kisses, warm sweet breath, gentle hands, and Spock’s mind so perfect, so welcoming.

After the absolute intimacy of the meld, it seemed foolhardy to try to push for sex and risk spoiling the evening; there was plenty of time. “If you want to, you could draw me again tomorrow,” Bones whispered against Spock’ skin, sliding one hand down to his hip, flattening his palm against the solid jut of bone. “Whenever you do, I want you to ask me to do whatever you’d like to see.”

“Anything, Leonard?”

“Yeah, Spock.” He nestled against Spock comfortably. “Whatever you want.” Maybe he could do a better job of keeping that promise than Jim had.

“I do not know what to want,” Spock confessed. “Aside from you here at this moment.”

“We’ll figure something out,” Bones promised. Maybe it would even help them with Spock’s other problem, if they were lucky.

They cuddled and necked their way to sleep, Bones’s body throbbing with vibrant, electric arousal even in his dreams-- all of which prominently featured Spock’s warm, strong body, solid and just exactly what he needed to press against. He did so, rutting luxuriantly against Spock’s hip and thigh, moaning softly to himself--

\--and awoke to a gentle glow of morning light, but Spock was no longer there, the hollow that had held his body growing cold. Bones frowned, stirring to look for him.

“I wish to draw you like this,” Spock said softly, appearing with his sketchpad in his hands. “Continue what you were doing in your dream.”

What he’d been doing was getting himself off against Spock’s leg, which was conspicuously and annoyingly absent from the current scenario. Bones sighed, shifting onto his back and letting his hand drift inside the waistband of his shorts. If he tried, maybe he could still pretend he was half-asleep.

He felt a tug and twitch as Spock arranged the sheets, exposing his flank and the motion of his hand, hidden inside the cotton cloth of his boxers.

That wouldn’t do. Bones sighed and raised his hips, interrupting himself to push the shorts down and kick them off. “Draw me like one of your Vulcan girls,” he joked, hoping Spock approved of his actions, trying not to feel so self-conscious he lost his erection.

Spock made a low noise-- the soft hiss of appreciative inhalation. “I must confess I have far less desire to draw you when I could touch you instead.” The pencil moved, though, its familiar scratch oddly loud in the quiet room.

“Then draw fast. I can’t hold off forever.” Bones slowed his hand, giving himself a long slow tug and a gentle twist at the head. He closed his eyes, pretending it was Spock’s hand on him, longing for Spock’s warmth.

He still felt a vague sense of Spock’s mind even though there was no physical contact between them; Spock fairly hummed with contentment. 

“I can feel you even though we aren’t touching,” he mumbled, trying to curl himself around that elusive sense of connection. “Am I supposed to be able to do that?”

Spock made a noncommittal murmur, pencil still moving. “It is an effect of the meld. A resonance, if you will. It may evaporate as physical distance between us increases-- or it may intensify, should we renew the meld. It indicates we are mentally compatible and predisposed to bonding.”

Bones listened to the tone more than the words; it shivered through his nerves, burning pleasantly in his belly. He meant to answer, but what came out was a soft, breathy grunt, almost a moan, as his thumb swiped across the tip of his cock. 

“What do you feel?” Spock sounded a little breathless; he set aside his sketchpad with a rustle and came forward on his knees to observe.

“See for yourself,” Bones tilted his head toward Spock, offering his mind, his hand still moving lazily. 

Spock accepted, touching him with delicate care; they both gasped as their minds blended together. Spock’s sudden, startled arousal burned through McCoy’s mind, nearly setting him off on the spot.

“God,” he muttered through clenched teeth, struggling not to come as Spock’s consciousness slid into his own. Spock’s eyes flew open wide, his lips parting as he gasped for breath. 

“Hang on,” McCoy groaned, and moved his hand faster, fingers playing over the sensitive spots, moving just the way he liked it. Spock’s breath rasped in his throat; both hands splayed over Leonard’s face as he sank deeper into the sensation. Bones tightened his fist and moved his hand faster; Spock keened deep in his throat, his breath coming in little whimpers.

Orgasm began to build, tightening around Bones in slow increments; he could see the net of his own nerves and neural fibers lighting up, electricity pulsing through him. Spock was fascinated by it; breathless with anticipation, transfixed beyond verbal thought. He peeled one hand free of Bones’s face and slid it down, curling it around McCoy’s moving one.

Bones sank his teeth in his lip as the electric charge flared to ground, crackling through him in a plasma cloud that incinerated all thought. He heard Spock cry out, felt his own semen spatter his belly, felt Spock’s fingertips trail through it in wonder. Spock’s mind quivered within his own, completely undone, incapable of rational thought for long moments before he began to collect himself.

“Leonard.” The word resonated through him inside and out. Bones lifted Spock’s hand, licking his own come off Spock’s fingers; Spock shuddered with pleasure at the sight, his eyes fathomless and dark. “I do not believe I have survived this experience.”

McCoy chuckled in spite of himself. “We call that _la petite mort_ here on Earth, yeah. But you’re fine. Trust me.” He nuzzled a kiss against Spock’s palm. His voice felt husky, his body boneless as water, his mind purely sated. 

Spock stirred inside his mind, frowning a little, carefully drawing back. “Leonard, I do not think indulging in a meld during an event of such psychological and physical intensity was entirely wise.” 

“Yeah? What’s wrong, did you bond us by accident?” He wasn’t sure he’d regret hearing a yes. 

Spock hesitated. “Not precisely. However, I cannot guarantee that a bonding would not occur spontaneously should we repeat the indulgence of experiencing orgasm while we are melded.” 

“What _did_ you do?” McCoy drew him close, nuzzling at his throat. He wondered what color Vulcan skin would bruise when suckled, so he decided to find out at the earliest possible opportunity. 

“A channel has been created between us that will endure in the absence of physical contact. You noticed it before; it is stronger now than it was then, and I do not believe it will subside with distance. It is a preliminary step of the bonding process, and is similar to the connection I once shared with T’Pring.”

“So Jim’s not the only one who just got himself engaged.”

“You are essentially correct.” Spock’s worry flickered, strengthening and blending with his guilt, and McCoy felt him gather himself to lock it away unseen. 

“Stop that.” He shifted, pushing Spock onto his back and nuzzling at his throat. “All other things remaining equal, I’ll be glad to make an honest man of you one of these days. You know that.” He settled his mouth on the perfect spot and began to nibble gently. 

Spock hummed softly and curled his arms around Bones, reassured. 

_Bet we had more fun than Jim did getting engaged,_ Bones thought, focusing on the warm skin between his lips as the silver-blue of Spock’s amusement pulsated around him. 

The clock finally reminded them they had to get up-- Spock sporting a distinct set of olive-green suck-marks on his throat. Bones entirely approved of the color he’d created. 

“While you are consulting with PRevolutions regarding your endorsement spot, I will go out and procure a couch,” Spock announced.

“Make sure you get something with a smooth finish instead of fabric-- it needs to clean up easily with a wet cloth,” Bones suggested, giving him a sly wink. “And make sure it’s not white.”

“I will defer to your superior expertise in this matter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _la petite mort:_ The little death (orgasm)


	27. Chapter 27

Spock’s subtle presence at the back of Bones’s mind felt good as he went out into his day-- as if he carried Spock’s calm with him instead of being on his own. 

He had high hopes his divorce and his naked modeling stint would be enough to disqualify him from consideration as a spokesmodel, but apparently the divorce and the child were only enough to humanize him-- and if anybody complained, he had a pretty little blonde baby daughter who was just as telegenic as he was. 

“No way am I putting her on the holonet,” Bones protested.

“Can we at least film the back of her head, running up to you and you scoop her up and swing her around?”

“No!”

“If you won’t allow her in the spot, you won’t-- but we’ll make it known you don’t want a child of yours dying in an extraterrestrial conflict,” Kiran made a note on her padd. 

They filmed him walking through the quad in front of the Admiralty Building at least a hundred times, reciting a carefully-crafted spiel on the importance of maintaining responsible relations with other cultures-- with a couple of significant variants.

“We’ll take this back and see what we can do with it,” Kiran finally said, patting his shoulder. “If we need more footage we’ll get you back out here in a day or two. We’ll need more spots, too, with different contents, so keep a check on your comm messages.”

McCoy agreed gloomily. He went home and found the house full of workmen delivering Spock’s new couch-- a startling lavish blue-gray faux-leather sectional with two reclining seats. The workmen were arranging it fronting on the window to the bay. Bones blinked at the thing in pure shock as he padded carefully over the cardboard strips protecting Spock’s carpet from the movers’ rough shoes. 

“If you aren’t careful, people will start to think somebody lives here, Spock.” He managed to tiptoe past the workmen and took sanctuary behind the breakfast bar. 

“Before, this apartment was merely a place I used for sleep and work,” Spock said quietly. “Now it is beginning to feel like a home to me.”

“And it only took adding a sofa!” Bones teased him. Spock gave him a look that mingled fondness and exasperation. 

“I believe you are being deliberately obtuse, Leonard.” 

“Surely you wouldn’t want to deprive me of one of my greatest pleasures in life.” In spite of the workmen, he offered Spock two fingers, which were readily accepted. “Especially now that I’m a holo star. I deserve to be pampered and indulged.”

“Did the filming go well?”

“I have no idea. We’ll have to see what they make out of it. It was a pain in the ass, really.” He rubbed at his cheek and showed Spock the pink residue on his fingertips. “When they get out of here I’m gonna shower and scrub off.”

He did, then christened the sofa by kicking back and putting his feet up. “Let’s order in, Spock; I don’t much feel like cooking. And neither do you.” The new connection was pretty convenient, though it worked a lot better when he was actually close to Spock. He closed his eyes, surprised awake when the door chime rang-- Spock had ordered enough pad thai for them both and a side of chicken satay just for him. 

He checked his email when he’d finished eating, disposing of a couple dozen new messages before opening one from Jim.

“Jim says his re-sit’s scheduled for tomorrow…. That’s pretty fast,” he blinked. “Everybody’s still off for Christmas. Where’s he gonna find enough crew? I’ll agree to run navigation for him again, I guess.” He started to type, then became aware of Spock watching him soberly.

“This is what you were programming when I woke up yesterday, wasn’t it.”

“Yes, Leonard.” Spock finished his noodles and set the bowl aside. “While you were out today I was able to test the simulation in the examination facility and ready the environment. Admiral Marcus requested it personally.”

Bones whistled and shook his head. “What kind of nasty surprises should I expect?”

“No consoles will explode in your face. The remainder of the test parameters are confidential.”

“Jim’s hunting for crew. He wants to know if you’d be willing to man the XO console.”

Spock raised a brow. “While I would ordinarily agree, I believe in this case it would be a conflict of interests since I designed the test.”

“I’ll say you’re busy.”

“That is accurate. I will be observing the simulation from the instructors’ and designers’ area.”

Bones sent his message and leaned back, working to parse the mixed signals he was getting from Spock. He was wary, but anticipatory; his wariness seemed to focus both on Bones and on the test.

“You’ve set him up with a doozy, haven’t you.”

“I do not know what you mean.”

“I mean it’s gonna be ugly.”

“The Kobayashi Maru is rarely resolved in a tidy fashion.”

“Yeah, but this time it’s personal.”

“I do not agree that my design was emotionally influenced. It is not traditional to allow a re-sit of the Kobayashi Maru; the second scenario will therefore be significantly more challenging. Also, I am now more deeply aware of Cadet Kirk’s interpersonal issues than before, so I have created a simulation that will test his resolve in dealing with them.”

Bones nodded unhappily. “It’s gonna get ugly.”

“That was not my intention, but perhaps you are correct.”

*****

Bones thought he was prepared for the worst thing Spock could think of to throw at Jim, but it turned out he wasn’t. No consoles exploded at all; not long after the test began an enemy phaser shot took out the warp core and both the shields and the bridge lost power. Simulated Klingons beamed in and took down the crew one by one while they held Jim immobile and forced him to watch.

Bones could only shut his eyes and lie there with fake blood all over him from his own holographic cut throat and hope to hell Jim never found out who’d programmed the fucking sim. 

Jim was white as a sheet and haggard when the simulator finally opened up and techs streamed in. He raised Carol to her feet at the science station, speaking to her quietly for a moment, then came over and offered Bones an arm up without speaking.

“It’s supposed to be unwinnable, Jim: it’s a test of your ability to handle defeat.”

“There’s unwinnable and then there’s mockery, Bones. This was both.” He held his opposite shoulder at a weird angle, grimacing in pain.

Bones winced. “I think you’ve dislocated that.”

“He injured Lieutenant Marquez, too. Bruised ribs, a dislocated patella, and scratches.” A medic had his gear out, tending the ‘Klingons’ who’d immobilized Jim. “That’s outside the boundaries of permissible physical response to a simulation, Cadet.”

“Fuck the permissible physical response,” Jim snapped. He stalked off the sim with his arm hanging askew. Bones trotted after him, groping for his instruments and sparing a rapid, apologetic glance toward Spock, partly visible through the crowd where he stood near the back of the observation room. 

“Losing your temper’s not gonna look good on your psych profile,” Bones growled at Jim. 

“Fuck my psych profile, Bones.” Jim glowered at him savagely. “I’m gonna take that damn thing again and beat it, or I’ll know the reason why.”

“You can’t just keep taking it over and over, Jim.” Bones shook his head. “It reduces the impact of the test and prior experience invalidates the new score. Settle for the score from your first sit and be done with it. It’s no worse than anybody else’s.” This one was gonna be scored badly for sure, given how Jim had actually injured one of the administrating personnel. “You’re not gonna beat it no matter how many times you get Admiral Marcus to let you re-sit. You can trust me on that.”

Jim paused to wait for a turbolift and Bones took the opportunity to grab him and rotate his shoulder, popping the joint back into place. Jim yelped with agony, then turned the joint painfully to see if it worked. “Why does treatment always hurt more when you do it?”

“Because you’re a big baby.” And yeah, he’d have administered a sedative and a painkiller before putting the joint back if he could’ve got Jim into a medbay for treatment, but he’d known damn well he wouldn’t go. “You’re gonna need regen therapy for that shoulder or it might keep popping out on you when you put it under stress.”

Jim huffed at him irritably and stalked into the turbolift. “That test. It wasn’t fair, Bones.”

“Jim, they always make the re-sit harder, and they key those things to your psych profile in the first place,” Bones tried to calm him down. 

“It wasn’t fair the first time, no, but this time somebody set it up to humiliate me. I’d bet my bottom dollar on it.”

Bones winced. Spock wouldn’t have done that. ...He’d promised he hadn’t. Had he?

“One more shot. That’s all I want.” Jim’s jaw was set tight; he was wearing a layer of enamel off his molars, that was for sure. “I’ll show Starfleet Command what I think of their precious unwinnable scenario, Bones. One more shot.” He stepped into the site-to-site, blocking Bones with his body, not even inviting him along. “See ya.” He sparkled away into nothing.

Bones turned away from the empty booth and swore bitterly, aware that Spock would sense his distress-- but he couldn’t make himself regret that, not after Spock had upset Jim so badly. He’d made Jim stand there and watch while a bunch of thugs grabbed his crew and cut their throats one by one-- including his best friend and his fiancee, the mother of his unborn child. Of all the damn ways to get to the man, that had to be the worst fucking one he could’ve come up with. No wonder Jim had fought like it was real. 

Could Jim be right? _Were_ some of Spock’s choices for this one personally motivated? Could he be that petty?

“An exploding console would’ve been better, Spock,” he said out loud, startling a woman passing; she stepped aside and sped up her pace.


	28. Chapter 28

Bones decided to go back to the dorm to crash for the night because Jim was gonna need somebody to take care of him whenever he came staggering in drunk. Spock already knew he was taking care of Jim, and Bones needed to cool off a little before he asked the questions Jim had left burning in his brain.

It wasn’t like he was officially living in the apartment with Spock anyway. It’d just been till the dorms opened up, and now they were open again. He and Spock were still painfully new to this commitment thing. He shouldn’t wear out his welcome.

Feeling strangely heavy inside, Bones trudged his way to the dorm and let himself into the room where he actually lived. His uniforms hung in the closet; his books and padds lay on the shelves. There was Spock’s picture on Jim’s wall. His bed was still too narrow, too short, too lumpy, and worst of all, absolutely empty of Vulcans. 

Standing there among the familiar detritus of his life with Jim, Bones felt surreal and out of place, as if everything he’d experienced since the end of the semester had been a dream. Jim would walk in any minute from the communal shower, snapping him with a towel and joking. 

But he didn’t, so Bones sat down carefully at their shared desk, reaching out to a padd he’d abandoned before the semester ended. It had a list on it-- stuff he’d meant to do. Get a Christmas present for Jim-- fuck, he’d forgotten that entirely. Get one for Spock. Call Joanna. Get his hair cut. Clean out his closet. Buy a new pair of snow boots for Iowa.

Damn it, he and Jim should’ve gone to fucking Iowa. For Jim’s sake, not because of Spock. He and Jim would’ve taken a room in Riverside and they’d have wined and dined Jim’s mom for the holiday; they’d have taken her to the town Christmas tree lighting and her church pageant; they’d have sung carols and courted frostbite on Christmas eve. If the roads were clear enough, Jim would’ve packed Bones up on the back of his motorcycle and taken him out on the bike; they’d have gone screaming around curves, banking so far they scraped their knees on the tarmac, and Bones would’ve cursed Jim within an inch of his life for being a reckless sonofabitch. At some point, there’d probably have been a bar fight.

He and Spock would’ve found their way together even without their trip to Vulcan. It’d just have taken them a little longer, that was all. 

Bones turned on the computer terminal, unnerved by the silence of the room; it felt abandoned, as if neither he nor Jim actually lived there anymore.

He found a news broadcast on the holo-net and started making a new list on the padd.

  * Get Jim a belated Christmas present. 
  * Get Spock some watercolors. 
  * Get his hair cut (for fucksake, preferably before he turned into a hippie). 
  * Get his stuff out of Spock’s house. 
  * Help Spock put away the second futon, maybe. 
  * Get that fucking medical data unlocked (if it killed him-- still no word, though Dr. Puri had agreed to endorse his request.) 
  * Get through a semester of residency at Starfleet medical. 



Bones sighed at that last one. He’d be seeing all kinds of damn races there, a lot more than he’d ever see on a Starship. At least most of them were known quantities. But residency was hell; there were no two ways about it. He’d be on-call 24 hours a day for nine out of every ten days, sleeping wherever and whenever he could find the chance to grab a half an hour. Once the semester got going he wouldn’t have time for his shirttail to hit his ass until he surfaced for graduation.

  * Get Jim a wedding present. 
  * Plan Jim’s bachelor party. 



Bones groaned at that. He was the best friend; it was his job. He’d have speeches to write and deliver and wedding-related social events to attend, too, as the blessed date drew close. He’d be a fucking zombie if he wasn’t careful.

  * Make spots for PRevolutions. 
  * Buy dark sunglasses. And a hat. 



That ought to help keep him from getting recognized. He’d grow a stubble of beard, too, if it wasn’t against regulations. 

Someone tapped at the door, and Bones jumped, automatically hurrying over, half-expecting it to be Spock. But it was Carol, perfectly coiffed again after her simulator ordeal, her face pinched with worry.

“Have you seen Jim?”

“Not since I fixed his shoulder. You need to make him come in to get regen for that if you don’t want him dislocating it again every few months,” Bones said. It was gonna be her job now to try to force Jim to toe the line; he wished her good luck with it. 

“I’m worried about him, doctor.” 

“Yeah.” Bones met her gaze soberly. “So’m I.” 

“I’ve never seen a Kobayashi Maru scenario play out that savagely.” She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering. “Usually it’s remote, a ship-to-ship firefight.”

“You been to a lot of those?”

“A few,” she admitted. “I’m rated on most of the bridge consoles and I have a lot of friends in command.”

“How many re-sits have you seen?”

“Just this one,” she admitted. “They’re very rare. I hear they’re supposed to be much harder than the initial test. This one was certainly brutal.”

“Jim means to sit it again,” Bones said. “You think your dad’ll arrange it for him?”

She tilted her head. “Nobody ever takes the test a third time; I’m not sure. Do you think Jim scored well?”

“He did a lot worse this time than he did on the first one. There’s that guy he injured, for one thing-- and storming off without going to the debriefing didn’t help his case.”

“He doesn’t accept defeat gracefully.”

“Hell to the no,” Bones agreed, then realized she was distracted, looking past him at the holoscreen, her eyes wide.

“Is that you on the holovision? Turn it up.”

Bones didn’t have any damn choice. There he was, looking so painfully cleancut you could’ve eaten dinner off him, except for the single spike of hair hanging down almost to his eyes, talking earnestly into the camera about the need for galactic peace. The director had lit him from the side so you could see the green in his eyes like he was some kind of fucking movie star; somebody must’ve doctored the images to get rid of any blemishes on his skin. This must’ve been somewhere around the seventieth take, but he radiated sincerity and concern anyhow as he used ridiculous phrases like “Benign presence,” “dedicated scientific exploration,” and “the good of upcoming generations.” 

Carol’s eyebrows rose; McCoy face turned the same color as his cadet uniform.

“Admirable views, doctor.” She gazed at him out of clear blue eyes. “My father won’t like them very much, I’m afraid.”

“I didn’t think he’d jump up and down for joy,” Bones muttered. “But it needed saying.”

“If Jim comes in, have him call me to let me know he’s all right.” Carol’s eyes were nearly as wide and blue as Jim’s; he couldn’t have guessed who’d win a pout-off between them. 

“I’ll do that,” Bones promised, feeling horribly awkward. Again he found himself longing for Spock’s serenity. He slumped in front of the holo terminal when she had gone, rubbing his eyelids as if he could massage away the headache forming behind his brow. He found himself craving a stiff drink. Bad idea, drinking alone.

Instead, he made himself sit down and write to Joss so she could prepare Joanna for the chance she might see her daddy on the holovision. 

Jim came dragging in around 23:00 hours, stopping in the door and blinking at him with surprise.

“What are you doing here?”

“In case you hadn’t noticed, I live here,” Bones told him, matching rude for rude. 

“Coulda fooled me. Why aren’t you at home with the missus?”

“Your bride-to-be wants you to call her,” Bones retaliated. They eyed each other like dogs circling, stiff-legged, about to fight over territory. Then Kirk relented, tossing his jacket onto his bed. 

“Damn it, Bones, I don’t want it to be like this.” He flopped down next to the jacket. “I’m sorry, okay? You had enough space yet, or you want me to get lost?”

“Don’t be a jackass.” The headache was worse, driving a spike right between Bones’s eyes. He was gonna have to give himself an analgesic hypo. “Seriously, call Carol. She’s worried.”

“Yeah, I will.” Jim picked at a fraying seam in one of his boots. “The hell happened to us, Bones?”

“Relationships.” He made it sound like a swear-word. “They change everything.”

“Yeah.” Jim glanced at Bones through his lashes. “We could run away and never come back.”

“I don’t think I would if I wanted to,” Bones said slowly. “Which I don’t.” He was still aware of Spock’s presence in his mind, a faint sense of stability and calm, a touchstone. Bones ached to reach into that small place where Spock lived inside Bones’s mind now, to touch him, to be with him. 

Kirk’s eyes went opaque, and Bones realized he’d spaced out for a few seconds; he didn’t know how long. 

“He’s in your head now, isn’t he.” Kirk’s eyes narrowed. “With that creepy alien telepathic stuff Vulcans have.”

Bones couldn’t meet his gaze. “Yeah.” His voice turned gruff. 

“When did I lose you?” Jim’s voice sounded terribly raw, terribly young. “Is it even you in there any more? You’ve changed, Bones.”

“You didn’t lose me.” Bones took a deep breath. “I’m right here, and I’m the same Leonard McCoy I’ve always been. Just like you’re still Jim Kirk. We just have to figure out how the rules have changed, Jim.”

“I hate rules, Bones.”

“Then you’re gonna hate being married.”

Jim scrubbed his hands through his hair. “I need you to quit telling me that and start telling me how to make this work instead.”

“Call Carol and tell her you’re OK,” Bones answered promptly. “That’d be a good start.”

Jim actually went to the comm and did as Bones said, knuckling under to Carol’s worry and annoyance, offering up apologies and general penitent bullshit. For a second Bones could picture him fifteen years from now: a house husband with a spare tire around his middle, tired from work, coming home to an apartment full of screaming children and a fight over a badly-made dinner, weary and balding and beaten-down. 

_That’ll never happen to him._ He didn’t know if it was a prophecy or a prayer. 

“No, I’m in the dorm with Bones. Gonna hit the hay. Right. Love you too.” To Bones’s astonishment, Jim actually sounded halfway like he might mean that last part. Maybe miracles _did_ happen. 

“Maybe we should try a double-date,” Bones heard himself say, before he could retract the words for the abominable, suicidal idea they so obviously were. 

Kirk stared at him like he’d gone crazy. “Yeah, maybe we should,” he said after a minute, inexplicably.

“You pick _now_ of all times to start listening to me?” Bones wondered what the hell Spock would have to say about that and just how much Bones was gonna owe him after it was over. Probably a lot. _Definitely_ a lot. 

Jim fell over in bed with his boots still on and Bones pried them off him, then went to put on his pajamas, feeling strangely reluctant to stay, wishing he knew for sure whether Spock wanted him to come ho-- to sleep over. Spock’s home, not his. Not yet.

The soft pressure of Spock’s presence in that little comfortable corner of his mind soothed him, though the bed was just as horrible as he remembered. He wondered, as he hovered on the verge of sleep, whether Spock missed him, or whether he was relieved to have his bed to himself again so he could get some rest. 

For once Jim hadn’t tried to self-medicate his emotional upset by getting himself stinking drunk, so he and Bones actually made it to the cafeteria in time for official breakfast the next morning. Bones filled his tray, then realized Spock was present, sitting at an officer’s table with his back to the room. 

“Hang on a minute Jim.” He set his tray down and detoured over, smiling. 

“Morning, Spock.” 

Spock looked up at him neutrally. “Good morning. I trust Cadet Kirk is well.”

“Yeah, he’s fine. Didn’t even get drunk when he was upset, for once in his life.”

“Indeed. What did transpire?” Spock inquired. “I trust it was quite traumatic, to prevent you from contacting me to ensure me you were well.”

“Shit, Spock.” Bones deflated. “I should’ve called, yeah.” Goddammit, he’d even made Jim call, then he’d turned around and neglected Spock himself. “I dunno, I figured what with this and all, you’d know I was OK.” He gestured to his head. 

Spock raised a brow. “Indeed, and thus I did not notify the authorities of a need to look for you.”

“I was safe in my room, Spock. Jim ditched me early on, and I went back there to wait for him. Did you know they’re already showing--.”

“I had incorrectly anticipated you would wish to return to the apartment.” Spock turned back to his tray as if to resume eating, dismissing him perfunctorily. 

Wait. Was this a fight? McCoy blinked, reviewing rapidly. Spock had just interrupted him; he hadn’t offered a touch. Hell, it _was_. 

“I didn’t mean to disappoint you. To hurt your feelings.” He lowered his voice. “I was mad at you to begin with, I admit it. Jim’s my friend, and he was hurting-- you may not believe you were emotionally motivated when you set the test, Spock, but you couldn’t have hurt him any worse with that sim if you’d deliberately tried to. I was also trying to figure out if I ought to push my luck and crash in on you again, and I figured I shouldn’t, since the dorms are open now. Then that new spot came on the holos while Carol Marcus was in the room trying to find Jim. After she went, I had to write Joss and warn her in case Joanna sees it. Joss was pissed off and commed me to vent, so I had a lot on my mind. Jim got in late. He and I argued, and by the time all that was over, I wasn’t mad at you anymore, but I was worn out, so I just fell into bed. God, I’m standing here making lame-ass excuses like…” _Like I used to make when I didn’t call Joss and she stayed up worrying._

“Spock, I was inconsiderate, and I’m sorry. I promise I’ll call and let you know where I am from now on-- if I can. Kiss and make up?” Bones reached out, two fingers extended, and held his breath. 

Spock regarded his fingers for a long moment, then reached out and touched them briefly, withdrawing before Bones received more than the faintest, fleeting brush of his mind: cool and closed, guarded. Bones felt like he’d kicked a puppy. 

“I did want to come back to the apartment, Spock. I just didn’t want to wear out my welcome. We hadn’t discussed where I was supposed to stay or how our arrangement would change after the dorms re-opened. We should do that.”

“Perhaps you should get your tray and sit down with me to do so.” He still wasn’t acting quite right, not if McCoy was any judge, but at least now he was willing to talk, so Bones hurried to grab his tray.

“Trouble in paradise?” Jim gave him a wry look. 

Bones gritted his teeth. “I neglected to call and check in.”

“Like you made me do?” If that smirk got any more smug, Bones was gonna put a fist through it. 

“Like I made you do.” Bones scowled. “....Shut up.”

He put his tray down and sat down next to Spock, who hadn’t made much headway with his oatmeal and toast. “I’m not good at basic relationship maintenance, Spock. That’s why I’m divorced,” he confessed quietly. “And we’ve got a tough time coming up, too, when I won’t be as present as I ought to be. This semester is my residency for the xenobiology program. There’ll be times when I’m stuck in the ER or the operating room for hours and hours; I won’t always be able to call. I won’t even be able to make it to an actual bedroom sometimes, much less back to the dorms or your apartment. My residency at Grady was a bitch. During the middle of it, Joss decided she might as well screw around behind my back because she couldn’t handle being married to a man who wasn’t there. I had to do a fucking DNA test to be sure Joanna was even mine, Spock. We didn’t think she could’ve been. That’s how little I was home.”

Spock’s eyes rested on him quietly as he listened. 

“I understand, Leonard, and I am prepared to sacrifice as I must for you to fulfill your duties, as you will at times be called on to endure sacrifice when I must do mine. But you were not called away by duty last night. You were called by your friendship with James Kirk. While I respect its importance to you, I need to know I am equally important.”

McCoy winced, remembering Spock’s fears, which Spock had confessed to him so honestly, trusting him with a vulnerable side of himself he preferred not to reveal. 

“You are. Of course you are.” God, he needed to hug Spock, to caress his hands, to touch him somehow. He offered his fingers again, and this time when Spock accepted, the touch lingered. More of Spock’s normal self shone through the contact, the whole cafeteria seeming to fall away, leaving them isolated as if time stood still. 

“Are either of you planning to eat, or are you just gonna sit there and make calf-eyes at each other?” It was Jim, his tray already empty, glaring at them with exasperation. “I’m hoping you two made up already, because if you aren’t busy tonight, Carol and I thought you might like to join us for dinner.”

“Fuck you, Jim.”

“That would be agreeable.”

They spoke at the same time, and their eyes locked again as Jim snorted out loud. “I’m assuming that means ‘yes.’ I’ll zap you a mail with details as soon as we settle them.” He slapped Bones on the shoulder. “And next time, do what I tell you and be sure to call the old ball and chain, okay?”

“What _you_ told _me?!_ \-- Dammit, Jim!” But it was too late. Kirk was already gone, laughing his ass off. 

“I’m gonna kill that sonofabitch someday,” Bones said wistfully, watching him go. “By vivisection, I think.”

“You are making the significant assumption that no one else will murder him first, Leonard.”

“I’ll just have to cut in line.” Bones sighed. 

“You do not push your luck when you come to visit me,” Spock said suddenly. “You are always welcome to stay the night.”

Leonard closed his eyes, awash with so many emotions he couldn’t classify them all. “Thanks, Spock, that’s good to know. ...We should go out and choose those watercolors I wanted to give you for your birthday,” he said, feeling his throat go thick and awkward. “Then let’s go hole up and take advantage of every second we’ve got before the semester starts.”

“An excellent plan.” Spock paused. “Should I have declined Cadet Kirk’s offer?”

“That remains to be seen, Spock.” He couldn’t help but grin. “It won’t be a boring evening.”


	29. Chapter 29

The evening wasn't boring, just as Bones predicted. By the time he and Spock finished shopping-- including a brief detour for Jim’s belated Christmas present--, Kirk’s letter arrived, suggesting an early meet-up in suit and tie for drinks, then a nice sushi restaurant in Manhattan (of all the fucking places; sometimes Jim killed Bones, he really did). 

“He knows damn well I don’t have a leisure suit.” Bones snorted. “Or he thinks he does, anyway. I’m wearing your formal outfit, and it’s gonna serve him right.” 

He decided to shower before he put on his formal Vulcan robes, and emerged feeling defiant, wearing nothing but his necklace and a towel, very much liking the way Spock’s eyes rested on him as he dressed. “You planning to draw this?”

“Indeed,” Spock said instantly, and Bones laughed, pulling the shirts and robes on over his head. 

“Hold your horses, Spock, at least till we get home.”

“I will do so. Leonard.” Spock paused, and Bones instantly sobered, hearing the seriousness in his voice.

“Yeah?”

“I have considered your words and concluded that I was, in fact, unfair in designing James Kirk’s second Kobayashi Maru test, in part due to emotional bias, though I did not believe so at the time.” Spock swallowed and met his gaze. “After you questioned my motives a second time, I recognized that I had focused on addressing the test to precisely challenge known weaknesses in Kirk’s psychological profile without considering the far-reaching emotional consequences upon him or others in the simulation.” 

Spock lowered his eyes, penitent. “While you were in the shower, I reviewed the scenario and compared it to those of other second tests, and I have discovered his was significantly more traumatic, given his choice of team personnel. I… should not have programmed the sim immediately after observing that James Kirk had hurt you, and should have taken more time to test and evaluate it before allowing it to be used.”

Bones nodded gravely, his heart going out to Spock; how hard did it have to be for a Vulcan to confess something like that? “Okay. At least you’re aware of what you did; you’re acknowledging it. That means you can overcome the temptation next time, right?”

“I will endeavor to do so,” Spock agreed. “And I will endorse Cadet Kirk’s request for an additional re-test, citing the unfair nature of the previous simulation.” 

“Thank you, Spock, on his behalf.” Bones stepped close to touch his fingers, stroking them gently. “I’m pretty sure it’s not going to do him much good, though.”

They strolled down to the site-to-site in the fog, and Bones realized the Vulcan robes were perfect in a way he hadn’t expected; he and Spock could walk closely side by side and touch their fingertips together as much as they wanted. The hanging sleeves and loose folds made it all but invisible. Not that anyone in San Francisco would mind seeing a display of affection, but Leonard liked to try to respect Spock’s cultural preference for discretion. 

Jim and Carol arrived as they drew near, ready to coordinate before beaming cross-country. Jim’s eyes nearly fell out of his head when they landed on Bones, and Carol elbowed him with considerable savagery to get him to quit staring. 

“Here you go, Jim. Merry Christmas,” Bones pushed a box into his hand, and Jim opened it warily, then slung the hand-knitted blue scarf around his neck at once.

“Thanks, Bones. ...Things have been so crazy I didn’t remember to get you anything, you bastard. Tonight’s on me, okay?” His face was drawn, the good mood from earlier having dissipated. Maybe Bones could get it back if he played his cards right.

“Whatever you say, Jim.” Bones elbowed Spock lightly. “Don’t order the most expensive thing on the menu. As his best friend, that’s _my_ job.”

Jim laughed, relaxing a little. He looked good dressed in trim, dark blue and Carol sparkled in a black satin cocktail dress and fake-fur coat. She had on slender, delicate heels that didn’t go well with the snow and packed-down ice they found waiting in New York. The sun had already gone down and the town bustled with Christmas lights and tourists. Jim hailed a hovercab and they all piled in, McCoy slightly uncomfortable in the back squashed between Spock and Carol while Jim took the front seat and directed the cabbie to the cocktail lounge they’d picked. 

“There better be vegetarian food available at dinner,” Bones warned him, tapping Jim’s shoulder. 

“There is,” Carol soothed him. “I made sure of it. Commander Spock, how is your family?” 

Spock and Jim didn’t have much to say to one another; maybe that was a good thing. Carol Marcus was good at small talk, and Bones helped her fill in the thin spots, keeping conversation moving as they plowed through town. The cabbie worked hard at giving Bones a nervous breakdown, so he was relieved to climb out of the cramped backseat and take refuge inside the warm, noisy bar. 

Leonard waited for the other shoe to drop as they ordered cocktails (Spock choosing his inevitable mineral water); Jim had that look like something on his mind was about to make him explode, and Bones had a couple of pretty good ideas what it might be.

“I saw you on the holochannel,” Kirk said as soon as the waiter left. “Damn, Bones.”

“Somebody needed to do it. My apologies, Miss Marcus.”

“I’m not offended by your preference for peace, doctor.” She smiled. “And it’s Carol to our friends.”

As a candidate for her PhD in applied physics with a specialty in advanced weaponry, she was doubtless only being polite. “Thank you, Carol.” He noticed Jim didn’t extend a similar invitation to Spock; the two were still ‘Commander’ and ‘Cadet.’ Given their jealousy of one another, they’d probably stick to stiff, formal rank for the remainder of time. 

“Bones, have you ever considered more lives might be lost if we fail to prepare for war than will be lost if we’re ready to repel hostile aggressives?”

Yeah, that was Jim. He couldn’t resist kicking the hornet’s nest. Bones scowled at him. 

The cocktails arrived and Spock began a polite conversation with Carol, his voice bland. “How proceeds work upon your dissertation? I am partly familiar with your work on developing a quantum torpedo utilizing zero point energy. How do you plan to weaponize virtual Brownian cessation? Will such torpedos neutralize organic beings while leaving mechanical items intact?”

That was the last sentence Bones planned to try to understand. He rounded on Jim quietly. “Are you sure this argument is one we should be having right now?”

“The zero-point radiation of the QED vacuum will be an order of magnitude greater than nuclear energy,” Carol said, voice clear and bell-like, obviously determined to ignore them.

“The Casimir effect contradicts your claims, demonstrating such a quantum electrodynamic force to be disproportionately weak.”

“The Casimir effect doesn’t take into account the energy distribution gains that can be achieved with--”

Jim ignored them both, addressing Bones directly. “I think it’s one everybody will be having, thanks to your holo-spot and a couple of dozen others a lot like it. Alexander’s making himself quite a collection, and he hasn’t even started picking up the ones on other member worlds. At least, he hadn’t when I left. He’s livid already, Bones. What’s the plan, to carpet-bomb public opinion with bleeding heart propaganda, then call a galactic referendum on Federation policy?”

Bones grimaced into his bourbon. That was the problem with having a tactical genius for a friend-- especially when that tactical genius was in bed with the enemy’s daughter. _Alexander?_ Jim was definitely getting too big for his britches.

“That’s it, isn’t it.” Jim eyed him. “That’s what Ambassador Sarek has up his sleeve. Damn, Bones. You don’t bet small, do you.”

“This isn’t my gamble, Jim. I’m just a pawn in this game.”

“That’s a dangerous position to be in.” Jim stared at him intently.

“Coming from anybody but you, I’d think that was a threat.” Bones felt his mouth tingle with an electric flood of adrenaline; he carefully set his glass aside.

“Coming from me, it’s a friendly but urgent warning.” Jim’s gaze never wavered, his blue eyes sober. “The problem with being a pawn on a chessboard is that pawns tend to get wiped right off the board by the more powerful pieces.”

“Well-played, a pawn can checkmate a king,” Spock interjected, obviously processing both conversations at once.

“Playing for pawn mate is a damn dangerous game.” Jim swirled his own drink in his glass. “When I care about the pawn in question, it seems like an unnecessary risk to me.” His eyes stabbed at Spock, chips of blue ice. They reminded Bones uncomfortably of Admiral Marcus’s. 

“A risk in terms of…?”

“Hostile elements who disagree with the peace initiative and would find it convenient to see him removed from the equation,” Kirk said, slow and clear. 

Spock raised an eyebrow. “I respect your assessment of the risk involved. If you will all excuse me for a moment?” He rose politely and departed. 

“Jesus, Jim. Stop being such a drama queen.” Bones fidgeted, waiting for Spock to come back, but refused the offer of another bourbon. “Seems you two get along like a house on fire,” he told Carol, trying to break the uncomfortable silence. “Nerds of a feather?”

She laughed. “Commander Spock has an impressive grasp of scientific principles even outside his disciplinary focus, yes. He could be a fine weapons technologist.”

“The only thing I’ve run into yet that he can’t do is tell jokes,” Bones said wryly, trying to diffuse the crackling tension still radiating from Jim like heat off a melting warp core. “But I’m good enough at that for both of us. Did you hear the one about the ancient Roman emperor and his best friend?” Kirk groaned, but Bones kept right on talking. “The guy's name was Abacus, and the emperor knew he could always count on him.” 

All three of them recited the punchline in unison.

Bones grinned and tried again. “OK, so how about this one? A three-legged dog walks into a saloon in the Old West. He slides up to the bar and announces: ‘I'm looking for the man who shot my paw.’”

“That’s why you’re with Commander Spock,” Jim accused him, sounding a lot more like his old self again. “Because you want an iron-clad excuse for why your significant other won’t laugh at your bad jokes.” 

“Yeah, that’s it. It can’t be the ferocious competence, the overwhelming intellect, or the smoking-hot sex,” Bones goaded him deliberately. 

“As if the two of you’ve ever actually had sex,” Jim scoffed. 

“Jim!” Carol kicked Kirk’s ankle under the table, exasperated. 

Bones just smirked at him, lifting his glass and looking as smug as he knew how while he drained it. What Jim didn’t know about what Bones had or hadn’t done yet with Spock wouldn’t hurt him.

Spock’s return put a swift and total stop to that conversational gambit, and Jim deftly redirected, finishing his cocktail. “Let’s move out so we can get to the restaurant in time for our reservation.”

Bones noticed Spock acting a little oddly as they departed, but he put it down to paranoia from Jim’s comments. He felt a little off-center himself, glancing up and down the street carefully as they climbed into a taxi and departed.

He didn’t have much appetite, neither for sushi nor for the uncomfortable conversation, mostly dominated by Carol and Spock exchanging scientific small talk. Jim seemed to have said his piece, and Bones felt oppressed, weighed down by Jim’s somber mood. 

Bones’s heart sank, but he wasn’t really surprised, when a small stir erupted by the door and two stony-faced Vulcans with open-carry phasers were admitted, making straight for their table.

“Excuse me,” Spock said again and rose to speak with them; they promptly came over and took up positions, one at his shoulder and the other next to Bones, separating them from the exterior window and carefully watching the door to the street.

Jim surveyed the guards with interest and inclined his head politely to Spock. “Your father’s ambassadorial guard forces? Smart choice.”

Carol looked a little confused, then upset. “What’s this?”

“Precautionary measures.” Spock seemed polite enough, but Bones recognized that tone; he wasn’t going to back down. “As Cadet Kirk has reminded me, some interests or individuals might find it profitable to target a public personage from a controversial advertising campaign.”

“My father wouldn’t do that.”

Spock raised a polite brow. “I had not intended to single him out for suspicion, Miss Marcus.” Bones could parse Spock-speak well enough by now to know that didn’t mean Admiral Marcus was above suspicion, either. From the pinched look of her mouth, apparently Carol was sharp enough to hear it, too.

That put an end to the pleasant dinner conversation, and they picked at their food over uneasy half-silence, the few remarks Bones and Spock ventured falling flat and failing to find much answer. Bones had plenty of leftovers in a box when they departed. This time they didn’t travel together since not all of them would fit in one cab. It was a relief to split up, though Bones felt a pang as Jim glanced back over his shoulder.

“He’d better watch out if he doesn’t want to turn into a pillar of salt,” Bones muttered.

“We should return home. Leonard, I regret the necessity of pressing your choice, but I believe your personal safety would be best served if you relocated your primary residence at this time.” Spock stared straight ahead. “If it is agreeable to you, I offer my apartment for your relocation. Its status as diplomatic quarters means significant security precautions are already in place that may easily be activated to ensure your safety-- our safety. I believe we would be unwise to disregard a clear warning from someone so closely adjacent to the leadership of the militarization movement.”

“Jim’s just overreacting, Spock.”

“Perhaps so. Nevertheless I am, as Cadet Kirk put it, unwilling to countenance unnecessary risks.”

“I can’t walk around under armed guard while I’m on my residency at the hospital, Spock.”

“We shall see about that,” Spock said, and Bones sagged a little, realizing he damn well could, if Ambassador Sarek and his highly-ranked son had anything to say about it. “Can you fire a phaser?”

“I have a basic proficiency rating. I have to, as a member of Starfleet. But I am absolutely _**not**_ carrying a damn gun as I do my rounds treating patients, Spock. That’s not negotiable. I’m a doctor, not a sharpshooter.”

Spock sighed visibly. “I suspected you would not agree to do so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've reached a very difficult stage in my work year, and am unable to do justice to additions/edits/revisions/answering comments the next parts need until this period ends, which will be in a couple of weeks. 
> 
> Until then, I won't be updating every day; it may be a week or more between chapters, but I will be back after a couple of weeks and hope to write and post regularly over the Christmas holiday.
> 
> We still have a LOT of rough draft stuff waiting on my hard drive, including Spock's official birthday present-- and the developing action plot, so don't give up on me; I'll be back soon with plenty more. :-)


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: impending smut. Spock finally gets his birthday present!

When Bones and Spock arrived at the apartment, a security detail was already there, locking the place down; they retina-scanned first Spock, then McCoy, before letting them in. Once inside, Spock activated a concealed wall panel and pressed a button that brought blast shield plates humming up out of recesses in the exterior wall to cover the bay windows on each side, enclosing the two of them in a quiet cave. The security guards withdrew and stationed themselves on the perimeter after checking the interior; McCoy was just glad the men didn’t follow them inside and take up positions in the living room. 

The seriousness of all the Vulcan guards was starting to disturb him, so he was glad to put his leftovers in the fridge and curl up on the couch with Spock. 

Spock touched a control that projected a recorded cityscape onto the windows, restoring the illusion of normalcy, and opened his arms. McCoy settled into them, feeling uneasy.

“I don’t like this, Spock. I wouldn’t have agreed to go on the holovid spots if I’d realized it would come to this.”

Spock nodded, wordless, and ran his fingers along McCoy’s, soothing and gentle. Bones felt himself relaxing and tried to laugh. “You always do that. Who makes you feel better when you need it, Spock?”

“You do, Leonard.”

“As if. I couldn’t comfort you if I had to; I’m always upset.”

“The comfort I require is different from that which you need. That does not mean you fail to provide it.”

“There’s a big difference between you and Jim, you know,” Bones said softly. “He’s like a whirlwind. He kicks up everything he touches, launches it sky-high, and drags it along behind him in a fit of chaos as he reshapes the world the way he thinks it ought to be. You never know what’s gonna happen next; every day’s a crisis. He calls it ‘an adventure.’ He thinks it’s fun. But adventures are like they say in _The Hobbit._ ‘Nasty disturbing uncomfortable things! Make you late for dinner! I can't think what anybody sees in them.’”

Spock almost chuckled; he was sure of it. A bright flutter of amusement sang through his mind. 

“You, you’re like the eye of the storm. Oh, there’s a storm about you, too, definitely-- you’re intense as fuck, Spock, and if somebody gets on the wrong side of you there’s hell to pay-- but when I’m with you, I’m always inside the calm point at the center, and you usually scour things clean instead of just shredding them and leaving wreckage for me to put back together.” Bones got up, slowly unfastening his robes as he thought about what he was saying. He folded them and laid them in their box; if he was gonna live here, he needed a closet and a dresser or something. Fuck. More clutter, more complications for Spock.

Spock, too, began disrobing, caring for his things and stripping off the public veneer he wore so well, like a second skin so tightly affixed it seemed impossible it could be peeled away. 

Bones held his breath, watching it go. Who else had ever seen this transformation-- subtle but profound? Who else could go to the man who emerged, lay hands on him, smile, and receive soft welcome in return?

Maybe what Bones brought to the table was simply the virtue of comfort drawn from his presence: Spock (rather illogically) had come to trust him enough to let him in, out of need for someone. He owed all of this to Spock’s desire for intimacy combined with physical attraction and proximity fed by a chance compatibility of interests, enabled by an impossible accident of good timing. 

_Love makes us all stupid._

He’d tried to be worthy of that trust for Joss, for Joanna. He’d failed. 

He’d lied to himself for months about what he wanted from Spock, denying any feelings he thought might drive Spock away. They were the very feelings Spock turned out to need from him.

If this was going to work, if they were going to trust each other, that kind of bullshit had to stop. He had to be honest with them both.

Bones turned, feeling the warm air caress his skin, and went to Spock.

“I love you,” he said quietly, sliding both arms around him. “It’s all right if you don’t want to say it back.”

 _“Ashayam,”_ Spock said, that delicate ruffle of amusement caressing Bones again, “you should learn to speak Vulcan.”

“Should I?” Bones sparked to the heat he sensed under the amusement; Spock’s arms encircled him and held him firmly as he managed to lean aside to snag a padd off the computer desk. “Vulcans actually have a word for love?”

“Yes, _k’diwa._ More than one.”

“There you go again,” Bones complained. “And I haven’t finished looking up the first one yet.” It was very difficult manipulating the padd one-handed with Spock nestling in to kiss his throat. 

_“Taluhk nash-veh k’dular, ashal-veh,”_ Spock said against his skin, varying the kisses with maddening little bites.

“If you’re calling me a moron I’m gonna get revenge regardless of how right you are,” Bones mumbled, knowing damn well that wasn’t what Spock was saying. Spock merely took the padd away from him and tossed it aside; it clattered to the desk and fell off. 

“Leave it,” Spock insisted, and Bones was glad to comply. Spock gently pushed him back until they reached the wall, pinning him there.

Bones gasped with pleasure as Spock leaned against him, heavy and strong, his skin hot. There was nothing reserved about Spock now as he endeavored to taste every bit of McCoy, covering his face and throat with fierce, savoring kisses. 

“If the door chimes, let’s just ignore it,” Bones gasped. “I think there’s a conspiracy to keep us apart.”

Spock hummed against his neck, hands sliding over his shoulders and down his ribs, exploring in tentative sweeps and mapping him with every possible bit of finger and palm pressed to flesh, as though Spock feared missing some subtle but important part of him through carelessness. 

This would be a lot easier if they could get horizontal.

“Bed,” Bones said, pushing against Spock’s chest, but finding him as immovable as the wall. _Just how strong is he? Fuck!_ “Bed, c’mon, Spock.”

Without warning Spock lifted him bodily and Bones squeaked, flailing and winding up clinging foolishly to his neck. He was a pretty big guy; he hadn’t been picked up like that since he was about eight.

“I will not drop you, Leonard.” Nevertheless, it felt unpleasantly like flying as Spock carried him to bed, lowered him easily to the mattress, and followed him down; Bones was glad to be nestled on solid ground again.

“I like these futons. They don’t have any legs,” he said foolishly, and Spock blinked at him, baffled, but before he could explain Spock’s mouth covered his to silence him and Bones’s nervous chatter faded away into sweet, hot bliss. 

He might have wished for the medical information he’d sought, if he’d actually needed it, but Spock felt natural under his hands: hot, sleek skin, springy chest hair, the crinkle of a nipple tightening under his tongue, the impatient lift and push of his hips promising responsiveness. Spock lay back, panting softly; he wasn’t very vocal, but his breathing quickened, growing shallow, and his fingers tightened on Bones’s arms, urging him down. 

He took his time, a little nervous, sliding his hand down along Spock’s belly to his groin. He blinked, a little startled; it felt a lot more like his ex-wife than he’d expected. But that was all right; when he parted the soft skin he found a quite different sight awaiting him there. 

There it was, a tantalizing hint of what might lie within-- a blunt, exotically fluted tip, promising a nice, thick shaft, poking out of a nest of slick, wet flesh. Soft round shapes were barely visible below it, subtle imprints on the skin, protected within a cradle of exotically curved pelvic bone. Almost certainly those were Spock’s testicles. 

Bones ran an exploring fingertip over one of the little shapes, and Spock’s breath hummed softly in his throat, an almost inaudible moan of pleasure. The wetness was warm and slick. His finger glided beautifully over the soft skin, circling; Spock lifted his hips, restless and seeking more. 

McCoy inhaled deeply, enjoying the pleasant, musky scent of Spock, rich with pheromones and salt. He let his fingertips play in softness, trailing through slick moisture. The recessed head lay nestled in layered folds of skin, enough to accommodate an emerging shaft of satisfying length. Bones slowly ran his fingers around the circumference, smoothing the folds. Spock’s breathing hitched and his hips twitched again, needy. 

Fluid welled slowly from the slit, gleaming droplets of translucent pearl. Bones leaned forward and flattened his tongue, slowly lapping across the olive-dark flesh. Spock’s breath hissed through his lips; his fists wrung taut, knotted in the bedding. 

Bones licked again, curving his tongue around the silky flesh, savoring its solidity in his mouth. It was more textured than a human’s shaft, with ridges of soft cartilage where the frenulum would be on the prepuce, encouraging Bones to explore and find sensitive spots to focus on.

He nuzzled in deeper, licking and kissing, trying to tease out a response. Spock’s whole body lay taut, shuddering with tension. Spock’s hand rose, trembling, and curved around the back of his head, but despite Spock’s eagerness he couldn’t find a trigger; the shaft remained inside his abdomen, frustrating them both. He wondered if penetrating Spock would help, but that didn’t seem likely. Maybe he’d have to try to synthesize female Vulcan pheromones after all. 

“Leonard,” Spock whispered, his fingers trembling. “I need….” His hand slid around and his shaky fingers sank inexorably to the psi points, his mind pressing inside Bones’s mind, the vague connection they’d shared suddenly flaring to full awareness. 

Bones gasped as Spock’s entire consciousness abruptly meshed with his, mutual arousal shared and doubled; Spock made a frantic, keening noise and his body abruptly kicked into high gear, his cock sliding out to fill the loose skin with a sinuous, rapid motion.

“Well, will you look at that,” Bones purred, reaching out to caress the beautiful cock that suddenly threatened to poke him right in the eye. “I should’ve guessed. Hi there, big fella.” He lipped a slow kiss against the tip, his tongue exploring the flare of the glans. A tantalizing ridge followed the length of the raphe, disappearing into Spock’s body: cartilaginous tissue, perhaps accounting for the swift total emergence. He could feel the shaft still filling in his hand, firming and growing taut. It was thicker in the middle than at either end, a generous handful his fingers couldn’t close around.

“Leonard. Are you talking... to my penis?” Spock’s voice was tight with strain and disbelief. 

“Uh huh.” He swirled his tongue around the tip, effectively silencing any further protests. “Just giving him a proper welcome.”

Leaving Spock no more room for words, he settled his mouth over the tip and slid all the way down.

Spock cried out and his hand fell away, the immediacy of the meld fading as it went. Bones hummed, flattening his tongue and strumming it against each node of the ridge as he went down. 

Spock’s thighs squeezed his ribcage and his hips lifted; Bones rode the thrust without faltering, then drew off and pushed down again. Spock keened; his cock jumped on Bones’s tongue. He swallowed and Spock gasped, tugging at him, pulling him up for kisses. 

“Too much?”

“I want to hold you,” Spock answered, ragged. _“Nartau. Shok-tor, talukh.”_

Soft, slick fluid gathered on Spock’s skin as Bones stroked their shafts together, palming them both loosely in his hand. Spock purred, kissing him, his tongue sliding in and out of Bones’s mouth with sleek aggression. His hips moved slowly, undulating, driving the languid pace between them. Bones gazed into his eyes when their lips parted; Spock’s irises thinned to narrow rings about his pupils, and his breath came swift and harsh, labored in his chest.

“Anything you want,” Bones whispered. “All you have to do is ask.” He let ideas trail across his mind, listening to Spock’s breath hitch as he perceived each one.

“Yes,” Spock husked, pushing him over on his back and covering him, too far gone for anything requiring more complex cognition. Bones laughed, delighted, and let him take what he needed, glad to arch up and thrust against him, showing him the way. 

Spock groaned aloud, a broken whimper, closing his teeth on Bones’s throat, and his thrusts sped up as he lost control, rutting away against Bones’s belly. Bones held him close, loving witness to the hitch and sob of his breath, the sweat gathering on his skin, the heave and bunch of his muscles, the low hint of a whimper in his throat each time he pushed his hips forward. Bones gasped, the sweet shock of the bite zinging fire through him, pleasure building force between them like the gathering reaction of a nuclear explosion, more than he’d ever dreamed from something so simple. Spock quivered, groaning aloud as the fireball burst, whiting out everything but its own burning glow.

Annihilation receded slowly, Spock lying heavy on Bones’s chest, their bellies glued together with sticky fluid. Bones’s neck hurt, a pleasurable ache where Spock had sunk his teeth. Spock was inexpressibly beautiful, his hair mussed, his eyes closed and his lips open, completely undone; his breath still came swift and shallow. His mind slid drowsily toward sleep, overwhelmed with the aftermath of his first orgasm.

“Happy birthday, darlin’,” Bones murmured tenderly, stroking his back, pleased to indulge him. “It just gets better from here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Ashayam:_ Beloved  
>  _K’diwa:_ Beloved  
>  _Taluhk nash-veh k’dular, ashal-veh:_ I cherish thee, darling  
>  _Nartau. Shok-tor, talukh:_ To embrace. To kiss, precious one


	31. Chapter 31

Bones woke tangled chest-to-chest with Spock, feeling a little too hot and sweaty under the goosedown coverlet, his face pressed against Spock’s neck. Spock’s hand moved on him, sliding from ribs to flank and back again, a slow, soothing journey. 

“Morning, Spock,” Bones mumbled, stirring and stretching, opening his eyes. Spock looked vaguely ridiculous with his hair sticking out every which way, and it made Bones smile. 

“Debauchery is a good look on you,” he murmured, pleased by the flicker of heat in Spock’s eyes. “You should look like this more often.”

“I am not opposed to it.” Mild, sweet-- Spock’s mind hummed with perfect contentment, even happiness. 

“I think it can be arranged every now and then.” God, he loved lying with Spock like this, warm and lazy, tangled together after sex and sleep, but unfortunately he had to piss. “Gotta get up and stretch out. Shower, breakfast. What do you say?”

Spock very nearly smiled, an expression Bones was starting to recognize and love. “I have been wakeful for some time. I will start the coffee.”

“You smuggled that percolator in here right after we started dating, didn’t you? You were already planning for me to wake up here someday.”

Spock’s tiny half-smile deepened, mischief in his eyes; he slid his hand over Bones’s ass, a lingering tease, then threw back the coverlet and stood up, beautifully naked, his skin dotted here and there with bruises from Bones’s mouth. “There is a relevant Terran saying, Leonard. Proper preparation prevents poor performance.” He strode into the kitchen without the slightest self-consciousness. 

Bones staggered into the bathroom to piss, snatching a quick shower while he was there. He was gonna have to teach Spock about the unexpected benefits of water conservation one of these days; the stall had a nice grippy texture to the floor and was plenty large enough for two.

Undershorts on-- he was still a little modest, okay? And they’d come off easily enough if needed-- he went out. Spock, too, had caved in to modesty and put on a loose robe, even if he hadn’t belted it shut. 

“We have messages waiting.” Spock’s computer terminal glowed in its place on the desk, and the dropped padd had been set beside it on the desk.

Bones detoured, picking it up; it came to life, displaying not his electronic mail, but instead, a neatly tabulated list of Vulcan endearments with a phonetic key and definitions provided. The ones Spock had actually used were helpfully highlighted. 

He swallowed hard, ears and cheeks burning as he read. 

“Humans have got Vulcans entirely wrong,” he said after he wrestled his way back to composure. “I guess you must want us to misunderstand?”

“There is a certain value in obfuscation,” Spock agreed, eyes still warm. “And yet, we did not create the misunderstanding. Humans observe our behavior and label it an absence of emotion rather than recognizing it as emotional control. As the segregation of our racial populations is still quite distinct, it is simpler not to correct the error, which is actually beneficial in that it allows us remain aloof from what might otherwise be extremely uncomfortable and overpowering emotional interactions.”

“It’ll come out, over time.”

“Perhaps so.” Spock seemed unconcerned. “Those who grow close to us will learn the truth and will come to understand how to respect our needs and interact effectively.”

“Some of us will just needle at you, trying to goad you to let them out.” He might’ve tried that himself if he and Spock hadn’t met like this; God knew it worked pretty well with Jim. 

“It seems likely, yes.” Spock set half a grapefruit in front of them both and handed Bones a small, serrated spoon. 

Bones spread a little sugar on top of the fruit and dug in.

The door chimed before he was halfway through, and Spock glanced at the screen. “It is my father,” he said with mild alarm.

“I’ll go put on a robe.”

Spock carefully closed his own garment and tied the belt, smoothing his hair. When they were both decent, he buzzed Sarek in. Bones went to the fridge and cut another grapefruit, setting a place at the bar for Sarek in case he wanted it. 

“Ambassador. We were just having breakfast. Will you join us?” He refused to display his embarrassment.

“Father.” Spock stood stiffly to one side of the door. “I anticipated your visit would come later in the day. I assume you have questions about my request for personal security.”

“Actually, I do not. I was preparing to contact you myself before dispatching guards for you and Cadet McCoy. Your request spared me the necessity of convincing you.”

“Has there been a threat?”

“Not in those precise terms.” Sarek looked at the grapefruit Bones had laid out for him. Incredibly, he sat down and picked up his spoon, preparing to eat. “I believe I will join you, yes.”

“Would you care for some tea? Or maybe some coffee?” Bones was willing to play socially-adept-trophy-wife if it’d smooth things over. 

“Tea, please.”

Spock sat down warily across from his father and resumed his own interrupted breakfast as Bones heated water and brewed tea, then poured a cup and provided condiments before going back to his own food. 

Bones tried not to glance over at the single wildly-rumpled bed as Sarek sipped his tea; he hoped the HVAC had scoured the air clean of the smell of sex. Thank God he’d snatched that shower. He forced himself not to conceal Spock’s pendant behind his palm.

“The initial response to our publicity campaign has been overwhelmingly positive,” Sarek reported. “I received numerous calls inquiring if we intended to capitalize on this groundswell of public approval by calling a referendum on the Preparatory Defense Initiative.”

“That is, of course, your ultimate goal at this time?” Spock inquired politely.

“Yes, given the response, I believe our original plan will be an advantageous course to pursue.” Sarek neatly separated a segment of grapefruit, and Bones wondered if the pesky fruit was simply too intimidated by the ambassador’s presence to squirt him in the eye. “Doctor, I was surprised to find you had agreed to make an advertisement spot. Had I been consulted, I would have advised against it. Your position is a tenuous one. You are subject to career-altering consequences should you arouse Admiral Marcus’s ire.”

“Yeah,” Bones sighed. “One of my friends said the same thing. But it sort of happened on the spur of the moment, and damn it, I think it was the right thing to do. I believe in what I’m saying.”

“That is admirable, but had I known earlier, security measures would have been in place before this. Several of our speakers have already received adverse responses to their work, two in the form of personal threats. I have taken the liberty of asking PRevolutions to intercept your comm traffic and mail; you may of course make a personal exceptions list of addresses that are to be put through immediately, without review.”

“Yeah, I’ll do that.” He glanced at Spock. “What kind of threats?”

“The same sorts many public figures receive regularly. PRevolutions has a department that specializes in psychological profiling of audience attention and will look for patterns indicating problem individuals. My personal staff will supplement their efforts.”

“I am grateful for your indulgence in this, father.” Spock spoke very quietly.

“Doctor McCoy is to become a member of our family.” Sarek drew himself upright, proud, without quite managing to look at Spock. “As such, he has the right to receive whatever protection it is in my power to grant him.”

Bones flushed with embarrassed pleasure. “You honor me.”

Sarek bowed his head, gracious. “We are richer for your presence among us.” 

Bones nearly ruptured something trying to maintain properly decorous eye contact with him instead of looking away to watch Spock’s eyes go wide.

Sarek had no such difficulty, remaining quite calm. “PRevolutions would like to make more publicity spots with you, doctor. You will find messages waiting to this effect when you check your communications. You have proved quite popular, and you have more veracity than an uninvolved actor who has been paid to speak. If you remain committed to this course, any sacrifice you should make for our cause will not go unnoticed or unrewarded. Should you grow to find Starfleet a hostile environment, ShiKahr has a growing human population in and around the Terran embassy. I can easily arrange a practice for you there.”

Bones swallowed; it was a generous offer, but it wasn’t one _Spock_ would like. “Thank you, sir. I prefer to remain where I am. I’ll put my faith in Starfleet’s objectivity for now.”

“The objectivity of Starfleet is admirable. Individuals, however, may not prove so tractable.” Sarek leaned slightly toward him, underscoring his point. “Take care in your everyday dealings, doctor. Some of your associates and even your superiors may not be as they seem.”

“I will, sir.” He cleared his throat, nervous. “I hope it won’t come to abandoning my commission. I plan to continue practicing medicine in Starfleet and I mean to request to serve on the same ship as Spock. I’ve been training myself in Vulcan anatomy and pathology to prepare for that eventuality, sir, but I’ve encountered unexpected difficulties. There is restricted information in the relevant texts, and the publishers are dragging their heels at releasing the key codes to a human. Would you be willing to ensure Spock receives proper treatment by ensuring I get the access I need?”

Sarek hesitated, glancing at Spock, who gazed at him without expression, perfectly still. “The confidentiality issues involve _Cthia_ , and to release such information is a potential violation of the Silences.” He contemplated for a moment. “I will request you be given an exception, provided you read Surak’s treatise on the Silences and sign a confidentiality agreement indicating acceptance of your responsibility to respect them regarding the information you will be granted.”

Bones frowned at that. “Other Vulcans who venture off-world may need medical treatment in the future, sir. If I’m quizzed about specifics for an individual case, may I have dispensation to disclose under those circumstances?” 

Sarek sighed. “Doctor--”

“You’re welcome to call me Leonard, sir.”

“Leonard.” Sarek actually looked tired. “You do not understand the magnitude of what you ask. I recommend you settle for signing the agreement and having the files disclosed to you, then require such consultations be brought to you for treatment if it is at all practical.” 

“And if it isn’t?”

“Then you must choose whether to keep your word, Leonard.” Sarek rose, bowing gravely. “I trust you will make the right decision.” 

“I’ll sign it for Spock’s sake.” Bones took a bold step toward Spock, setting a possessive hand at the small of his back. _But I won’t withhold the knowledge needed to save a life._ He suspected Sarek knew it. “Thank you for your acceptance and your assistance, sir." He should have known that, once a decision was made, Vulcans moved fast. Spock had certainly done so. 

Sarek took leave of them not long after, and Leonard sat back down at the bar, shaking his head. “Your father… he’s trying to relate to you, Spock.”

“He is trying to relate to _you,_ Leonard.” Spock corrected, stubborn.

“He said I'm about to join your family. That means he’s accepted your choice. In my book, that says he respects you and cares about your happiness. I think he’s just not sure how to show it.”

Spock hesitated. “I will think on it.”

“I should go pick up my stuff from my room. Let Jim know I’ve gotta move out.” Bones hesitated. “He may not take it too well.” He drummed his fingers on the tabletop. 

“The guards and I will accompany you.” Spock went to shower and dress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Cthia:_ Loosely translated, "logic." In a broader sense, this term includes a variety of Vulcan lifestyle traditions and customs.


	32. Chapter 32

They found Kirk in the room, lying on the bed staring at the ceiling. He sat up and glanced between Bones and Spock, then fixed his gaze on Bones, tilting his head, his mouth a thin, set line. 

“Spock, can we have a few minutes?” Bones laid a gentle hand on Spock’s arm. Spock reached for him and their hands twined for a long moment. Bones responded, though he was keenly aware of Kirk watching them like a hawk. 

“Certainly, _k’diwah._ ” Spock stepped out to join the guards in the hall.

“So he actually… does. You really _did._ With him. ...What was it _like?”_

Bones scowled; trust that to be the first thing Jim picked up on. And how the hell could he tell, anyway? He’d taken care to pick a collar that covered the bite, dammit. “That’s none of your damn business. ….Where the hell’d you think little Vulcans come from, anyway?”

“Test tubes, probably. Maybe budding.” Jim sat up, watching Bones reach for a duffel and start clearing the contents of a drawer into it. “So this is it.”

“Damn it, Jim, it isn’t.” But in a way, it was-- Bones had Spock and Jim had Carol; they weren’t carefree bachelor boys anymore. They’d always be best friends, but it’d never be quite the same. “I can’t keep guards standing out in the dormitory hall 24/7, but you said yourself you don’t think I’m safe.”

“Yeah, I don’t.” Jim got up quietly. “Here’s the shirt you loaned me. Thanks, by the way. And some socks…” It looked like half his leisure wardrobe was stuff he’d snitched from Bones, actually. 

“Keep the stuff, Jim, you need it.” Bones reached self-consciously to finger the black silk of the Vulcan wrap he wore. He had enough clothes of his own, and the money to buy a few more. “I don’t have enough room to carry everything,” he lied. He piled his books and his few bits of stuff into the bag. He didn’t have a lot of frivolous decorations, just some holos of Joanna. “Keep the bedsheets and things too. Maybe I’ll need to move back in here someday.” He didn’t really think so, but none of the bedding would fit Spock’s furnishings. “It’ll at least let you pretend I’m still living here so they won’t pile another roommate in on you. It’ll give you and Carol a clean bed to play in.”

Kirk nodded, hands jammed in his pockets. He still had the drawing of Bones hanging on the wall. Bones pretended not to see it, understanding that it would hurt Jim now every time he looked at it-- maybe it always had. 

“Don’t be a stranger.” Jim watched Bones zip up the duffel. “You gonna live with him now?”

Bones sighed. “Yeah, Jim. I reckon we’re more or less engaged. Just like you.” He paused, uncomfortable. “Let’s get together when I have my first free day. Play some cards, drink a little Jack Daniels. Just us.” He grimaced. “And a guard or two outside the door, but I can’t help that.” He slung the duffel over his shoulder, feeling like someone was gutting him. The look on Jim’s face….

This was the real Kobayashi Maru: the fight Jim couldn’t win. The knowledge struck him, brutal and sudden. 

“Congratulations.” Jim said and stiffened his jaw, refusing to show anything else. “I’d like to play cards, yeah.” He reached a hand out abruptly, smiling a broad, false smile. “Good luck, Bones. Be happy with him.”

“Dammit.” Bones took the outstretched hand and hauled him in for a hug; to hell with shaking hands. Jim was stiff in his arms at first, unyielding, but then he broke and softened; his arms came around Bones and tightened painfully as he held on, burying his face in Bones’s shoulder. 

“I’ve got my fucking xeno residency coming up; I’ll be scarce as hen’s teeth till graduation. Then we’ll be assigned to a ship. Spock says I’ll be aboard the Enterprise. That’s where scuttlebutt has you, too. You OK with that?”

“Yeah.” Jim took a deep breath. “Yeah, I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Bones kissed him fiercely on the temple, feeling Jim drag in a slow, shuddering breath at the contact. “I’m gonna throw you one hell of a bachelor party, kid, residency be damned.” 

Jim stepped back, giving Bones a half-smile-- sadder, but more sincere. “I’m looking forward to it, Bones. Now get out of here before your boyfriend decides I’ve seduced you after all and comes after me with murder on his mind.”

A dozen things said, ten thousand more that hadn’t been. Couldn’t be. 

“Yeah,” Bones said and walked out into the hall where Spock waited. “This is it.” He hefted his bag to demonstrate.

Spock nodded and reached out, offering the _ozh’esta_ despite the guards. Swallowing, Bones returned it. “Let’s go home, Spock.”

Spock’s mouth turned up at the corner when he heard the word: the faintest smile. “Yes, Leonard.”

Home, where the guards checked the apartment before letting them in. Home, where a closet and a new dresser already sat waiting for Bones. Home, where Spock curled up with him on their new couch and twined their hands together, then kissed him. Home, where he could nestle against Spock’s chest and feel loved and safe, where he could look forward to cuddles and sex later. 

“He took it well?” Spock ventured, but Bones shook his head. 

“No,” Bones said softly. “He didn’t.”

Spock didn’t understand; Bones could tell, but he rested his head against Spock’s anyway, luxuriating in the last fleeting calm before the storm of his residency.


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: chapter contains some gore/possible body horror/possibly distressing medical details and procedures (not performed on a main character).

“OW!” Bones snatched his hand free and shook off droplets of blood. Shit. He was gonna have to cut; if he didn’t, the little parasites would simply eat their way out. “Nurse, get me a scalpel. And set up a restraining field!” He swore, holding his hand behind him for attention as he and the nurses struggled to hold together the edges of the bite to keep things in check till the restraining field was set up. 

“We can’t hold them much long--” a nurse yelped, her thumb caught in a set of strong, sharp teeth; she couldn’t pull away without allowing the babies to open up the growing tear. 

“Get that field up!” Bones shouted and watched the blue shimmer leap up; he cut swiftly, providing an escape route, and the nurses sprang back as a seething mass of green, scaly horrors erupted out of their maternal host, confined within the forcefield.

“How damn many of them are there, anyway?” He couldn’t count; they were moving around too much.

“Ten? Twenty?” The bleeding nurse wrung her hand.

“We’ve got to get them out of there right away. They’ll eat their mother while she’s still sedated if we don’t. These aren’t mammals, damn it!” He stuck his hands through the field and seized a baby by the scruff of its neck-- more like its spiny dorsal ridge, actually. “Here you go, John. Get the little fucker into an incubating chamber and give it some raw meat, stat!” He handed the thing over to one of the technicians, who accepted it gingerly, holding it at arm’s length while it clawed to reach his face. 

There were eight of the bug-eyed little horrors. They managed to take a few bites out of everybody, including their mother, before Bones and the nurses could corral them all. Bones called for a second surgeon to tend his team, but he took care of the mama himself, postponing the moment when he could withdraw and let his own bleeding scratches and bites be mended. Every last bit of crumpled eggshell had to come out; then he checked the birth canal, removing the benign tumor that had blocked it and prevented her from laying her eggs. He sealed her up wearily, leaning aside for a nurse to wipe his sweating forehead while the other doctor saw to his hands.

“She’ll be fine,” he muttered. “But me, I’m emotionally scarred for the rest of my life.”

His Vulcan guards stood impassive outside the door to the OR; apparently eight squirming, clawing, voracious Gorn hatchlings didn’t count as sufficient threat to warrant intervention. 

“Congratulations, doctor. It isn’t every day you deliver eight babies with one cut.” Will Cray gave him a smirk. 

“Thank God for that,” Bones muttered. 

“Saw your new commercial. Pretty hardcore. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m voting for peace?’ Sitting next to a fireplace with a labrador puppy in your lap and a little girl playing Monopoly on the floor? I know for a fact you don’t have a dog, doctor. Who writes that stuff?”

“Professionals,” Bones sighed, flexing his newly-repaired hands. “But they’re right about my vote. Thanks, Will.” 

“Don’t mention it. You’ve got an Orion prostitute in the fourth delivery room; she’s set to deliver twins, breech. She’s exuding defensive pheromones so strong it’d fry the nose hairs out of a horta. Don’t forget your oxygen mask.”

“God, I hate maternity shifts.”

Bones didn’t ever make it home to Spock that day; he slept a few hours on the uncomfortable sofa in his shared office with Solket and K’niik standing watch over him, then jumped up and dove in again. The second day was an ER shift, which was even worse-- it had humans as well as xenos, but mostly Bones wound up treating accident victims, kids who’d been doing too many drugs or joyriding hovercars without the safety guards engaged. He lost two teens who’d driven a “borrowed” hovercar straight into a support pylon; they were pretty much hamburger when they came in.

By the time he was officially off call, he was glassy-eyed and miserable and couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. Solket brought him a protein supplement bar, and he ate it on autopilot, thanking the Vulcan absently as his guard handed an extra bar to Will. Then Solket and K’niik went off-shift, replaced by Setak and T’Rileh; she was small, but Spock said she was vicious. Seeing her glare at Will when he tried to flirt with her, Bones could believe it. 

“That’s not the way to win a Vulcan’s heart, you know,” Bones confided. 

“How’d you do it?”

“I stripped stark naked to give him a look at the goods, then played hard-to-get.” It was mostly true. He’d been pretty stupid, too, but he didn’t see any reason to admit _that_. 

“That’s not gonna work either. She’ll just laugh, then ignore me.”

“She won’t laugh; she’ll just raise an eyebrow and make you feel about two feet tall. Then, yeah, she’ll ignore you. ….You could try being handsome.”

“Len, anybody ever tell you you’re an asshole?” Will chuckled. “An ugly asshole, too.”

“Takes one to know one.” He heaved himself up off the sofa. “I’ve gotta go. I’ve got an important appointment.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little bit to tide you over and celebrate me figuring out how to get the story moving again after it threatened to stall!


	34. Chapter 34

Jim was waiting in the room he now had to himself, but he took one look at McCoy and pushed the cards aside, pulling out some glasses and a bottle instead. “You look like ass, Bones.”

“I feel like ass.” Bones sighed. “I’d almost forgotten how much residency sucks.”

“Take a load off,” Jim advised him. “How’re things going with you and Spock?”

“Fine, whenever I actually get to see him. He’s coping with this a lot better than Joss used to, at least so far.” Bones scrubbed at his unruly hair; he was tired of sonic showers and longed for a real one. 

“I learned something the other day.” Jim looked away, and Bones realized he was a little stiff, his jaw set.

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“I learned who programs the fucking Kobayashi Maru sim.” Jim wouldn’t look at him, knuckles white on the neck of the bottle. 

“Shit.” Bones took the whiskey from him and added a generous double to his glass. “Jim, I would’ve told you if I’d thought you knowing would do anybody in the world any good, but--”

“Yeah. It doesn’t.” Jim glared at his own whiskey, swirling the amber fluid. “Guess that explains the second test, huh?” His voice could have cut glass.

“Spock regrets that.” Bones admitted. “I told him I thought the severity was emotionally motivated, and at first he said it wasn’t, but then he reconsidered and admitted it may have been. For what it’s worth, he apologized to me and said it wasn’t an appropriate test. He’d have apologized to you, too, if the programmer’s identity wasn’t supposed to be confidential. How the hell’d you find out?”

“I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.” Jim knocked back his shot and poured another one. “I applied to take the test again, Bones. I think you’ll agree I have that right.” There was something hard in his eyes, cold and unreadable. It wasn’t the first time Jim’s look had made Bones think of Admiral Marcus; he shivered. 

“Spock said he’d endorse your bid since the second test was excessive. But Jim, it’s not gonna do anybody a damn bit of good if you--”

“I want you on the helm.”

“Shit, Jim. I’m too damn busy to take off and do a sim.”

Jim just looked at him, and Bones groaned, relenting. “All right, dammit. When’s it gonna be?”

“Next Tuesday afternoon at two.” 

“I’ll be there. This is the last time, Jim. If you keep taking that thing over and over again, you’ll have to find somebody else to suffer with you.”

“This’ll be the last time, Bones.” Jim still had that hard set to his jaw, but he shook it off with an effort and looked down into his empty glass, breathing slowly and deliberately to reduce tension. “This time I’ll fucking well win.”

Bones tried to change the subject. “How are you and Carol getting on?”

“Pretty good. She’s not having any symptoms yet.”

“Did you tell her parents?”

“Not yet. Alexander’s gonna have a fit.” Jim poured another finger of whiskey for himself. 

Bones shuddered a little at the familiarity. “It’ll be worse if he doesn’t find out till she starts to show.”

“About that, Bones. I know you can do obstetrics and deliveries. Would you be Carol’s PCP for this? She’s not comfortable going to the family physician; he’s too close to her dad.”

Bones sighed. “Yeah, I don’t suppose I can make the admiral hate me any worse.”

“You may have a point.” Jim leveled a wry stare at him over the rim of his glass. “You know the Gallups say if we held the referendum tomorrow, the bleeding hearts would win by a landslide.”

“On Earth, anyway.” Bones squirmed a little; he’d had to wear a hat and his dark glasses just to get over here. Minor celebrity made him damned uncomfortable. “I’ve got an open clinic session Thursday morning. Bring her in; I’ll reserve us a scan suite and get things set up.”

“I owe you a favor.”

“Yeah, well.” Bones threw his head back, finishing off his drink. “Get those cards out. In a couple hours, you’re gonna owe me a hell of a lot more.”

After he fleeced Jim, Bones gathered up his guards and went home to Spock. He saw his own face on the big vidscreen over the student union and turned up his collar, wincing. The guards made sure nobody bugged him.

Spock was waiting; Bones went and kissed his temple, running a longing hand over Spock’s shoulders. “Hey, stranger. You didn’t have to sit up.”

“We have only a limited time together this week, _ashayam._ I wished to make optimum use of it all.” Spock said nothing of the time Bones had spent with Kirk. Instead, he turned his padd up so Bones could see it.

“What’s that? Computer code… looks like chicken scratchings to me.”

“These are the parameters for James Kirk’s upcoming re-test. I wish you to inspect them for me and confirm they are fair. I will print a brief summary.”

“Thanks, Spock. Jim wants me to sit the exam with him and I agreed. Maybe I won’t be getting my throat slit this time.” Spock laid a printout by his elbow and Bones looked at it. Yeah, based on what little he knew about re-sits of the Kobayashi Maru, it was a lot less vindictive.

“Looks good to me-- he’ll still hate it, but it’s as fair as you can get with a no-win scenario.” Bones scrubbed his fingers through his hair. “He found out somehow that you’re the programmer for the sim, Spock. I didn’t tell him,” he assured Spock hastily. “But somebody did, and he’s mad as hell. He’ll probably confront you sooner or later.”

“I understand his re-sit is scheduled for Tuesday. I will be prepared for the eventuality.” Spock remained quite calm, so Bones relaxed and let it go.

“You eaten yet?”

Spock pulled out a bowl of cold macaroni salad, which he'd prepared with a textured synthetic protein that reminded Bones of salmon. The salad was good, so Bones settled in to eat, so glad to be home that he hardly knew how to express his relief. Spock sat down to keep Bones company through dinner, and though they didn’t talk, the silence lay comfortable between them. Bones scooped up the last bite on a cracker and groaned with bliss; he was sick and tired of protein bars and cafeteria slop. 

“Fresh vegetables and plenty of protein. Thank you.”

“T’Rileh says your sleep and nutrition opportunities as a resident are entirely insufficient.”

“That’s just part of residency.” Bones tried not to yawn over the excellent meal. “God, I’m so tired. I’d love to nail you to the wall, but I think I’m gonna have to settle for a cuddle.”

Spock’s eyes flared, and Bones was gratified by the heat he glimpsed there. 

“When must you return?”

“Around noon tomorrow.”

“There will be time in the morning, then.” Spock took the empty dishes and placed them in the sonic wash. 

“Afraid not. I’m under orders to get a good night’s sleep, then report to PRevolutions at 07:00 without bags under my eyes.” He scratched at his hair. “I’m sorry, Spock; next time I have a day off, I’ll reserve it all for you. That should be next Monday, but I’ll try to see you at Jim’s exam, too. Maybe we can meet up for dinner after it’s over.” 

Spock came to him and put his hands on Bones’s shoulders; Bones laid his own hands over Spock’s and caressed them gently, leaning to press a kiss against the back of one, glad that Spock could feel how sincerely he meant his vow. “At least they’re gonna give me a cut and style for the new spot. I’m as shaggy as a dustmop.”

Spock might have sighed with contentment if he were human; as it was, he radiated satisfaction. “I have received an encoded message from my father; it is labeled for your eyes only.”

“Maybe it’s that key for the redacted pieces of the anatomy texts,” Bones brightened, perking up. “I read through and signed that agreement he sent.”

“I believe it is, yes.” Spock made a soft noise of displeasure. “You are tense and overtired. I strongly advise you against spending the night reading the new material, Leonard.” Spock began to stroke and rub with measured pressure, easing painful knots of tension out of Bones’s muscles.

“Oh my God,” Bones moaned, letting his head fall forward. “I’ll give you at least an hour to stop doing that.”

“Come to bed, Leonard,” Spock said and helped him up. He undressed Bones tenderly and laid him on his belly on the futon, then kneaded his muscles until he slept.


	35. Chapter 35

Bones managed to wake himself up early, blinking into the pale gray light that filled the apartment. Spock lay tangled with him, breathing softly, his mind perfectly at peace. 

Bones felt rested and refreshed-- and horny as hell. He grinned at Spock’s beautiful, serene face: he wouldn’t continue sleeping for long, not if Bones had anything to say about it.

Bones slid a worshipful hand down the long, warm line of Spock’s back, curving it around his luscious gluteus maximus and pulling him close, thrusting lightly against his belly. Spock’s dark eyes fluttered open, gazing into his, momentary confusion slowly dissipating into heat.

“Good morning, Leonard.” He sounded husky, his voice unusually deep in his chest. “I trust you slept well.” 

“Uh huh,” Bones purred. “Best sleep in weeks. C’mere.”

Spock obediently laid his hand on Bones’s cheek, allowing Bones to slide his adventurous hands between them, opening Spock and seeking deeper. Arousal built sharply between them as Bones fondled the warm wet flesh inside, causing the sudden emergence he was growing so fond of, a lovely little miracle all his own, slick heat filling his hand perfectly. 

“We have only forty-five minutes before you are due at PRevolutions,” Spock cautioned him.

“Fuck PRevolutions right in the ear.” Bones began nibbling his way down Spock’s neck, not bothering to hurry, and sucked a beautiful green love-bite onto his throat, still handling him lazily.

“Thirty-nine minutes, Leon--” Spock gulped, unable to finish, as Bones sealed his mouth over a small jade nipple. 

By the time he was satisfied he had lavished enough attention on both of Spock’s nipples, the time was down to thirty-two minutes and Spock was making half-hearted efforts to escape in order to avoid the horrors of tardiness. 

“All right, dammit-- but we’ll only make it on time if we shower together,” Bones winked and pursued him into the bathroom with a predatory grin on his face. 

He went to his knees at once in the stall, and Spock sank back unsteadily against the wet ceramic tile with only a token protest, balancing hands splayed on the wall, his teeth sunk in his lip. Bones steadied Spock’s thighs and slid all the way down, hot water gushing over them both, clouds of steam rising to fog the mirrors. An object lesson in the delights of hot water, slippery soap, and steam followed. 

Bones made sure Spock saw him gazing up through the falling water, blinking droplets from his lashes, his hair plastered to his skull as he lavished attention on every little ridge with his tongue, pulling Spock’s hips forward and encouraging him to fuck his mouth. Exquisite perfection; Spock’s trembling hands cradled his head and guided him, tentative at first, then more forceful when Leonard moaned his approval, sparing one hand to tend to himself as Spock thrust carefully into his mouth.

It took Spock approximately eight point nine minutes to achieve orgasm with Bones doing everything in the world he could think of both to enhance Spock’s pleasure and to delay his climax. Twenty-three minutes rapidly shrank to ten in the flurry of recovery, fondling, and scrubbing that followed; Bones kept taking precious time out to interrupt Spock for kisses that threatened to provoke round two.

When they finally left the stall Bones felt incredible, strutting a little with pride. He went to the sink to brush his teeth, making a point of doing it. He grinned wickedly at Spock, who looked blissfully sated. 

“We should not have indulged ourselves. You will be late for your appointment in five point four six minutes.”

“To hell with being on time, Spock.” He took a nice double-handful of that perfect, sweet ass and dragged Spock in for a minty-fresh kiss. “You’re more important to me than those damn spots.”

Spock very nearly purred-- and managed to look disapproving at the same time, which made Bones laugh. 

Boxers, jeans, a T-shirt, and his Vulcan wrap, and he was off, already six minutes late, with Spock in tow. 

Spock watched, fascinated, as the hairdresser and makeup artists fussed over him; Bones grumbled and complained as always, but the attention was flattering. 

It was better than the misery of filming the actual spots, which involved a script and endless repetition. 

“This one’s the money shot,” the director said. “We’re going for the throat here.” He had a bevy of small children and a whole lot of disturbingly convincing prop weapons. Bones was to wear civilian medical whites and walk through an array of children, hitting a numbered series of taped marks on the floor and setting a protective hand on each child in turn: the children, dressed in too-large military uniforms, stood about clutching implements of destruction, looking lost, frightened, and woebegone. Images of carnage played out on the vidscreen walls behind them all, a spine-chilling projection of the future.

An image of Alexander Marcus projected on the final wall where Bones was to end up; he winced, looking at the unflattering shot. It made the man look positively demonic: craggy, wizened, and bitter; the hardness of his eyes showed all over his chiseled face. 

“No. That’s career suicide,” he told the director. “I can’t do that, man! I’m a member of Starfleet!”

“It’s absolutely necessary,” the director insisted, and they spent the next half-hour arguing; finally Spock leaned on his father’s reputation to persuade the man to remove Marcus’s face and substitute the logo of the Preparatory Defense Initiative instead. That was bad enough, but it was as far as he’d compromise, so Bones did it-- wondering if the Enterprise would ever stop on Vulcan so he could see Spock and Jim from his civilian practice there.

He got through it after a few takes, then did a few more for good measure; Spock watched, impassive and attentive, their guards at his side. When it was done, they retreated to Bones’s dressing room. Spock touched his fingers and they maintained the embrace for a long moment, luxuriating in the closeness, until Bones reluctantly drew away. “I’ve got to get moving. I have to scrub for the OR.”

“I will look forward to hearing from you again when you are able to spare the time.”

“God, I’ll miss you.” McCoy’s throat ached with longing, threatening to close.

Spock drew him close despite the guards, kissing his temple. “I know, Leonard. I will be waiting when your residency is finished.” 

His eyes prickled; Joss hadn’t been, and Spock knew it. 

T’Rileh tapped on the door and stepped in, bearing a padd; she cleared her throat softly. “The correspondence director is here. She has collated the month’s mail. Several troublesome pieces are reproduced here; however, far more troubling are a threatening series he believes originate from a single individual.” She pressed at the padd, scrolling through them; Spock’s jaw tightened as he read. 

“What is it?” Bones pressed forward, trying to see. “Let her come on in.”

“Personal threats, sexual materials, and a variety of disturbing imagery.” Spock shut down the padd before he could see. “Leonard, please do not allow yourself to become separated from your security detail.”

Bones frowned, chewing on the implications of that; the correspondence director stepped in with K’Niik behind her, interrupting the silence.

“We’ve sent a team out to locate this individual, if possible. We should be able to; different printers have distinguishing micro-marks. So do postal transmissions. We’ll keep tracing them down till we can triangulate on the stalker-- handwriting analysis indicates it’s a female-- and bring her in for questioning. If necessary, a thorough psych workup ought to help her adjust to normal. Once she’s identified, we can at least keep watch on her and keep her away from Mr. McCoy.”

Spock nodded gravely. “I would like daily updates on this effort, progressing to hourly updates should the situation escalate in any way.”

“Include me in such updates as well,“ T’Rileh said firmly. “I will now accompany you wherever you go, doctor, including the operating theater.”

“Now wait just a cotton-picking minute,” Bones protested when Spock nodded agreement. “Nobody’s gonna attack me in an OR. Everybody in there’s been vetted within an inch of their lives. Nobody’s gonna go to med school for years just to get at me. And God knows the patient’s made a major commitment too-- not to mention being knocked out the whole time.”

“A clever assailant might obtain entry while the room is not in use and place a delayed-release weapon such as a gas canister or bomb.” T’Rileh folded her arms. “Hospital security is lax by Vulcan standards, doctor.”

“Dammit, Spock, she’s not following me into the bathroom.” McCoy tried to argue, but Spock’s implacable expression never changed. “Oh, come _on_. Some things are sacred!”

“T’Rileh, ensure a male operative is present at all times to escort the doctor in such culturally sensitive situations.” That was Spock’s only concession. 

“Yes, sir.”

So Bones was stuck not only with a security detail, but an intrusive one. They remained within arm’s length as he transported to the hospital, T’Rileh going first so she could secure the next station. He rolled his eyes toward heaven as his superior emerged from the hospital to greet them, anxious over the communication from Spock. More red tape and inconvenience for everyone, all over some unhappy person looking for satisfaction in an unattainable stranger.

“We can’t just let anyone into the operating room, doctor.” Marshall frowned at T’Rileh, who gave no indication she’d noticed the expression. “It isn’t just a matter of sterile procedure; I’m sure we could scrub a guard if we have to. It’s a matter of privacy and liability, too. The patients have a right not to have their medical information, and even their bodies, exposed to every Tom, Dick, and Harry who walks in.”

“I know, Marshall, and I’m sorry.” Bones exhaled frustration. “Can’t you have them sign a waiver?”

“What if something goes wrong during a procedure? Get just the right litigious patient, and the lawyers will have a field day claiming some security thug (begging your pardon, ma’am) caused a mistake or that you were distracted due to your personal situation. This isn’t tenable.”

“I don’t know what else I’m supposed to do, Marshall. This campaign is important. We don’t want galactic fucking war.” He kept his voice low. “You know as well as I do what kind of hell that’d be.”

“That’s as may be. I’ve got to pull you from the OR, Leonard, until this shit gets resolved. You can still consult and work the ER, but the lawyers say no on surgeries.”

“How’s this gonna affect my grades and graduation?”

“You’re just lucky you logged a lot of hours in residence in the OR at Grady after you got your MD. That ought to satisfy the basic requirements. I don’t know what the xeno profs will say about you not getting to cut up aliens. Try working some of that famous persuasion of yours on them when the time comes.”

Bones grimaced. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Marshall, but fuck you.”

“There’s no wrong way to take that, I’m sure.” 

Bones stomped inside to put on his scrubs, scowling at everybody he passed and jamming his things in his locker with a lot more force than necessary. At least it was Solket who followed him in, thanks to Spock’s discretion.

“What’s with you bringing the goon in here?” John was busy doing technician things, smirking at Bones out of the corner of one brown eye as he changed out the towels in the shower cabinet. “Marshall’s riding your ass pretty hard today.”

Bones scowled at the man. “Don’t even get me started. Some psycho’s been sending me weird mail, so now I’m barred from the OR and can’t so much as have a piss in private.”

“Too bad for you.” John’s strong Hindi accent gave the words an amused lilt; he pushed his cart of soiled linens past Bones, giving the Vulcan a mock salute. 

It was just Bones’s luck that three bad xeno cases came through the ER that day, and Marshall wouldn’t let him operate on a damned one of them. They lost an Aaamazzarite he could’ve saved; he was sure of it. _God damned idiots, giving seriox to a biomorph in arrest, for fucksake!_ He could only read the chart and groan after the fact, though; it was too damn late.

Solket followed him as he retreated to the lounge and commed Spock.

“They took me out of the fucking OR thanks to the security rules, Spock. We lost a man today because I wasn’t where I was supposed to be. I can’t take this; it’s unacceptable. I’ve got to be able to do my job. I may not even graduate, do you know that? I’m willing to take some risks if that’s what it takes to save lives.”

“Leonard, it is imperative that we ensure your safety. It is illogical to--” 

“No, don’t start that with me.” He glared at Spock, suddenly furious. “I’m in Starfleet, dammit. I’m planning to accept a duty post on a fucking starship. That’s a risk I’ve chosen; it’s not a guaranteed ticket to old age and you damn well know it. You can’t put me in a cabinet and handle me with kid gloves.”

“Security protocols dictate--”

Bones was so furious he actually cut the comm channel, then regretted it. He hung his head over the table and let his forehead thunk against the fake wood grain, then counted to ten and re-activated the connection. Spock answered, his face carefully impassive. 

“Look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t take it out on you, and I apologize, but a fucking sentient being died today because of this bullshit, Spock. Why’s my life more important than his? It’s not. It’s _not_ , Spock, especially not when the risk to me is so low. You’ve got to let me be a doctor.”

Spock hesitated. “Very well, Leonard. I will contact T’Rileh and amend her orders. But there will be an additional need to check the operating area before you begin a case. Will that serve as an adequate compromise?”

Bones exhaled explosively. “Yeah, I think we can manage that.” He could sense Spock’s worry, and it made his heart ache. “Thank you, Spock. I owe you. And on the off chance something does happen, remember: it was my choice. Eyes open. It’s worth it to me.”

Spock nodded quietly, but his dismay remained unabated, a worried little flicker in Bones’s mind. 

_”K’diwah,”_ Bones said softly to him. “I’ll be fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _K'diwah:_ Beloved


	36. Chapter 36

Bones might’ve been fine like he promised, if not for the smear campaign that exploded onto the holowaves the very next day. The warhawks decided to fight fire with fire, vilifying the pro-peace movement and attempting character assassination on its spokespeople. 

As Bones had predicted, the opposition dug up all the dirt they could on him, painting him as an evil, immoral, alcoholic philanderer who’d enthusiastically debauched everybody he could get his hands on, creating the rift that led to his own divorce: a lousy father and an alien-lusting reprobate who spent his time shacked up with the Vulcan Ambassador’s disreputable half-breed son in sordid San Francisco and had broken up the man’s long-established traditional Vulcan marriage (well, there had to be a grain of truth in every lie, didn’t there?).

“Inevitable backlash,” the rep from PRevolutions shrugged. “Keep your head down and get a dog.”

“No way,” Bones said. He also refused Spock’s offer to compromise on a cat-- they were about to be assigned to a Starship, dammit. What would they do with a pet then? 

The one good thing in the middle of all this was the appointment for Carol Marcus’s scans. Jim came with her, holding her hand tightly as she lay in the chair with her feet settled up in the stirrups. 

“You sure you want me to be the one who does this? I could get the nurse,” Bones muttered, feeling decidedly uncomfortable about poking around his best friend’s fiancee’s genitals with an extremely phallic wand. 

“No, you,” Carol said, clinging to Jim’s arm. “He says you’re the best.”

Neither of them questioned the presence of T’Rileh, who stood unobtrusively in a corner, watching them all like a silent, impassive hawk. 

“Dammit, where’s John?” Bones needed some damn lubricant, but there wasn’t any in its place on the counter. Finally he dug up a tube from inside the cabinet, muttering to himself. “He’s supposed to keep the exam rooms stocked. Hard getting good help around here,” he said. “But don’t worry your head over a thing, Miss-- Carol. All you’ve got to do is lie back and relax.”

Despite his discomfort, Bones did his job, chatting pleasantly to Carol to try to keep her relaxed as he scanned. Things looked normal for a baby about a month along; its heart was beating and he could make out the little buds of lungs, arms, and legs. 

“Congratulations, ma’am, you’ve got a nice, well-developed little raisin in there,” Bones smiled at them both, pointing out the features on the screen with a stylus. “So far everything looks textbook normal. You should come back in about a month; by then you’ll have a raspberry. It’ll lose that tail, too.” He noticed Jim eyeing that feature. “No, that doesn’t mean it’s a boy,” he thumped Jim’s arm softly. “It’s a vestigial feature that goes away in utero. Carol, you’ll probably start to show in about another two months. I estimate conception sometime around the beginning of December, with a likely due date of early August.” They’d conceived almost as soon as they’d met, dammit. Sometimes people just had shitty luck. 

“I’m gonna do a set of standard blood tests just to make sure there aren’t any unexpected genetic factors we need to compensate for. That means you too, Jim.” He took a pair of extraction tubes and Carol sat calmly as he took her sample. “That’s how an adult does it,” Bones approved. “You gonna make a fuss and let her outdo you, Jim?”

Kirk winced theatrically when Bones punctured the vein, but he behaved a lot better than usual, and Bones was grateful to Carol for her good example. He set the tubes in the cooler, making a mental note to run his tests ASAP.

“I’ve got some basic self-care instructions for you to follow.” Bones fished out a standard early prenatal care packet from the stacks in a slotted box on the wall. “Follow the directions in here; be sure to stay hydrated, get good nutrition, and be sure to have plenty of rest. You can still have sex as long as it’s comfortable; just be sure to stay away from booze and tobacco or any other chemical intoxicants. I saw you didn’t have any raw fish with your sushi in New York; that was a good choice. You’re probably already on top of things, but just in case, read through these dietary restrictions. You taking any prescription meds? Over the counter supplements?” He reviewed the list, rejecting and accepting, and prescribed her a good prenatal vitamin mix to replace her current supplement cocktail until delivery.

“Thanks, Bones.” Jim had the strangest look on his face as he eyed the fetus on the screen; half shell-shocked and half-smitten, his paternal instinct already activated by the little life pulsing there. Bones figured maybe it hadn’t actually seemed real to him before. It could take expectant fathers like that, sometimes. Sometimes the wake-up call struck now; sometimes it waited until the actual delivery. He’d been taken with Joanna from the first second he saw her, just like Jim was taken with his kid now.

Bones ducked his head, cleaning his instruments as Jim helped Carol climb down. “I’ll send you a recording of the scans.” He retreated so she could dress, and both T’Rileh and Jim came with him, T’Rileh moving almost invisibly as she stationed herself behind him in the hall. She glanced around, wary; probably just on the lookout for Will, who was still trying as hard as he could to get into her pants. She was probably safe here in the GYN area; it wasn’t Will’s specialty, so he didn’t have any reason to wander through.

“I can’t believe the baby’s real,” Jim said softly, that stunned look still plastered all over his face.

Bones slapped his back. “Saw it with my own two eyes, Jim. It’s real. But you can wait to believe me until it’s two AM some night in September and you have to get up and figure out how to stop the screaming.” He grinned a little. “If you want, I can prescribe a tranquilizer for the mood swings.”

“Carol isn’t having mood-swings.”

“Not yet, maybe. She’ll start. And I didn’t mean the tranq for Carol; I meant it for you.” 

Jim cackled at that and was still grinning when Carol emerged, every hair in place, ready to go. As they left, hand in hand, Bones wondered if the birth of his child would do anything to shake Jim’s alignment with the warhawk faction. Maybe not; he might think fighting was the best way to protect his family.

He watched them out the door, feeling distinctly wistful, then went back to his duties. 

After the smear campaign aired, McCoy’s hate mail multiplied exponentially, so he wound up with another two security guards following him around, which boiled down to a third guard on each shift. He had to schedule a press conference rebutting the accusations and drilled every day with a coach on his responses, trying to prepare. He couldn’t afford to take even more time off for Jim’s re-sit, but Jim was one of the few things he refused to let slip by, so he had no choice other than to steal some hours from his next off-day to compensate for the necessary time. 

“I’m sorry, Spock. Fuck.” He laid his head in his hand, rubbing his eyes. “I’ll make it up to you, I swear.”

“The circumstances that have arisen are unavoidable,” Spock said quietly. “And as you say, you have a duty to your friend.”

Bones winced. God, he was gonna owe Spock his liver by the time this shit was all over. “I have a duty to you, too. I want to spend more time with you, Spock.”

Spock’s eyes warmed. “I will come by the hospital later and bring you dinner. Perhaps we will find a moment between cases to sit and eat. If not, it will be waiting when you finish.”

It was an advantage having a lover with both an intimidating presence and a Starfleet commander’s security clearance; Spock could trade on both and get admitted into almost any secure area. “I’d like that,” he murmured and pressed his fingertips to the screen, wishing he could kiss Spock. An alarm began to bleat behind him. “Damn, I gotta go.”

He was out of surgery three hours later, just in time to eat with Spock. He didn’t feel very hungry, but after he took his first bite of mushroom and corn taco with poblano peppers, he groaned with lust and devoured the rest so fast that he hardly tasted it. Spock watched him fondly and handed him another, which disappeared at a slightly slower pace. Finishing, Bones sighed and loosened his scrubs. 

“God, I could sleep for a week.” If T’Rileh wasn’t used to seeing PDAs between him and Spock already, she was just gonna have to deal with it. He sat down next to Spock and leaned up against him; Spock’s arm slid around his shoulders. “Thanks. That was fantastic. You shouldn’t have; I know you’ve got a heavy teaching load.”

“It was no burden.” Spock held him and they just sat there quietly, luxuriating in the chance to relax together.

After a while Spock’s comm and T’Rileh’s chirped in unison, rousing Bones from a half-doze.

“They have found the woman who has been sending you serial threats,” Spock read. _“Ashayam,_ I wish to be present when she is questioned.” He straightened up, preparing to go.

Bones sighed with regret. “All right, Spock. Don’t go too hard on her. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow at Jim’s re-test?”

“Yes.” Spock leaned in and kissed him softly, then departed.

“Doctor McCoy to the ER,” the PA blared just as he was settling back against the couch. 

“Shit!” He hustled, trailing T’Rileh, Solket, and K’Niik in his wake like deadly, stoic little ducklings.


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chunks of dialog lifted from the Star Trek 2009 reboot movie. I'd apologize to the writers, but they're not about to apologize to me for their misdeeds against my beloved characters, so to heck with it.

Having three extra security personnel standing on the bridge didn’t seem to bother Kirk as he settled in for the Kobayashi Maru, Mark III. He sat jauntily in the center seat, crunching on an apple like he didn’t have a care in the world, his eyes snapping as he stared at the viewscreen, visibly fidgeting for the thing to start.

Carol sat watching him at the science station, her forehead creased with worry. Bones could sympathize; he felt much the same as he took his place at the helm. He didn’t know how, but Jim had got Uhura to work the comm station. She looked pretty unhappy about it, operating the panel with sharp, angry gestures, her mouth pinched tight. 

The sim chamber closed down, completing the illusion of a functioning starship, and bridge noises came up as the program started to run. 

A hailing chime sounded and Uhura responded with far too much force, turning to report to Kirk, her voice clipped with dislike. “We're receiving a distress signal from the USS Kobayashi Maru. The ship has lost power and is stranded. Starfleet Command has ordered us to rescue them.” She whirled around in her chair, aggressive with displeasure. “Starfleet Command has ordered us to rescue them, Captain.” She laid emphasis on the last word with all the sarcasm at her disposal. 

Tactical came up on McCoy’s console and he reported, deliberately contrasting Uhura’s sulkiness with an absolutely professional delivery and attitude. “Two Klingon vessels have entered the neutral zone and are locking weapons on us.”

Jim took a bite of his apple. “That’s okay.”

All right; maybe professionalism was overrated. Was Jim thumbing his nose at Spock by refusing to take the sim seriously? “That’s okay?” McCoy’s voice nearly squeaked.

“Yeah, don’t worry about it.” Oh God, that was a smirk. It really was. _Fuck._ Bones knew James T. Kirk well enough to know he was planning something. Something major. Probably something _damn stupid._

“Three more Klingon warbirds decloaking and targeting our ship.” He glanced back at Jim, glaring. “I don’t suppose this is a problem, either.”

“They’re firing, Captain.” Bones didn’t even know that guy’s name.

Jim whirled on Uhura, absolutely reeking of smugness. “Alert medical bay to prepare to receive all crew members from the damaged ship.”

“And how do you expect us to rescue them when we’re surrounded by Klingons, _Captain?”_

The sim started to rock and shake; that’d be incoming fire. “Our ship’s being hit! Shields at sixty percent.” Bones wanted to shake Jim’s shoulders till his teeth rattled. 

“I understand.” He took a huge bite of his apple; Carol rolled her eyes and turned back to her console, apparently washing her hands of any role in this.

“Well, should we, _I don’t know, **fire back?!**_ ” It wasn’t gonna get Jim anywhere to fuck with Spock like this. He’d be in so much trouble with the administration board--

“Nope.” Jim chewed his apple, cocking his knee over the arm of the chair. 

“Of course not.” Bones gritted his teeth. Another “torpedo” scored on the sim; the power flickered for a second before settling to normal.

Jim picked that minute to perk up. “Hmm,” he said triumphantly, and Bones’s heart sank; what the hell had Jim just done? “Arm photons and prepare to fire on the Klingon warbirds.”

“Yes, sir,” the helmsman next to Bones obeyed.

“Jim, their shields are still up!” Bones protested.

“Are they?”

“No. ...They’re not.” Bone’s stomach rolled over as import of the reading sank in. _Christ, Jim fucked with the sim’s programming somehow to get the better of Spock. Oh holy mother of **fuck.**_

“Fire on all enemy ships. One photon each should do it. Don’t waste ammunition.”

Even the unnamed cadet looked doubtful at that. “Target locked and acquired on all warbirds. Firing.”

Bones watched with a sinking heart as every blip on his screen exploded, their theoretical enemies vaporized one by one. Spock was going to be _so fucking pissed._

“All ships destroyed, Captain.”

“Begin rescue of the stranded crew.” Kirk slapped his thighs, satisfied. “So! We’ve managed to eliminate all enemy ships, no one onboard was injured, and the successful rescue of the Kobayashi Maru crew is underway.” He turned the most insolent smirk Bones had ever seen up toward the observation window as the sim cracked open, light flooding in. 

“How the hell did that kid beat your test?” Bones heard a tech mutter in awe.

“I would venture a guess that Cadet Kirk has cheated by hacking the computer system. He has compromised the program by installing a subroutine designed to defeat the scenario.” Spock stepped forward, absolutely impassive. “I have witnessed him demonstrate proficiency with defeating computerized security measures on at least one prior occasion.”

“It was a successful resolution of the scenario.” Jim lifted his chin, defiant. “A little meta-analytical, maybe. But it worked. Sometimes all you have to do is think outside the box.”

“I think it’s a brilliant strategy, and Cadet Kirk is right.”

Bones closed his eyes at the unmistakable voice of Admiral Marcus. The admiral stepped to the forefront of the observation deck, glancing aside at Spock. “Sometimes all you need to get out of a seemingly unwinnable scenario is just the right unorthodox strategy or thought. Seems to me Cadet Kirk ought to be commended for blowing your computer program right out of the water.”

Spock stared down at the simulator, lifting an eyebrow as Kirk squared off to glare him down, every square centimeter of his body vibrating with defiance. 

Spock folded his hands behind his back and remained neutral. “The purpose of the test is to experience fear in the face of certain death, to accept that fear, and to maintain control of oneself and one's crew. This is a quality expected in every Starfleet captain. I believe the determination of Cadet Kirk’s success or failure in that respect is up to the adjudicating examiners. For my part, I will adjust the program to examine itself for similar acts of sabotage and automatically eliminate them in the future.” 

Bones tried to thank Spock with his eyes, chalking another several thousand points up on his “I owe Spock a major organ” list. Spock did not seem to respond, but his eyes swept across Bones as he surveyed the pristine condition of the sim, and a flicker of fondness touched their connection. 

The cadets streamed out, Uhura sparing Kirk a poisonous glare. Carol slid her hand into Jim’s and they went out together; Jim spared a smirk over his shoulder toward Spock, but Spock ignored him, stepping down into the sim to come to Bones. 

“That’s Jim for you,” Bones said quietly. “He doesn’t accept defeat gracefully. I’m sorry, Spock.”

“It is no matter.” Spock touched his fingers. “Perhaps Admiral Marcus is partly correct; Cadet Kirk is an innovative and determined young man, both valuable aspects in a commanding officer. He has a talent for overcoming the impossible with the unlikely.”

“Yeah.” Bones relaxed. “I’m still gonna rock your world to make up for him being an asshole, though. First chance I get.”

Spock very nearly smiled. 

“You went to see about that crazy lady,” Bones remembered. “What was up with her?”

“The PRevolutions security representative states she fits the typical profile for such a person: she is lonely and dissatisfied with her existence and fixated on you due to a misperceived connection after viewing your PR work. Over time she has grown to blame you for her distressed circumstances, as you have not acted to alleviate them.”

Bones grimaced. “Dangerous?”

“Perhaps potentially. They advised against allowing you to meet with her; such contact would only reinforce her erratic sense of connection. She will receive treatment, and her actions toward you will be closely monitored. We have also dispatched guards to protect your family in Georgia, Leonard, particularly your daughter.”

“That’s damn good thinking, Spock. Thank you.” Bones sagged with relief; goddammit, he should’ve thought of that himself. This celebrity business was more than he knew how to handle. 

“Well, I’m off till midday, Spock. Let’s hole up somewhere quiet and take advantage of the time while we have it.”

“Commander Spock.” Marcus’s crisp voice interrupted them. “A word with you, please.”

“Yes, Admiral.” 

Marcus did not bother taking notice of McCoy. “I’m giving notice of a change in your status. Since my daughter is planning to marry Cadet Kirk, they’ve requested a coupled assignment. That means she’ll be given the science officer post aboard the Enterprise. You’ll be assigned to the Farragut.”

Bones blinked with dismay; Enterprise was the flagship of the fleet. The Farragut was a lesser ship, so the reassignment was tantamount to a demotion.

Spock regarded Marcus with equanimity. “Has Captain Pike been apprised of the reassignment, sir?”

“A letter went out today.” Marcus folded his hands behind his back, austere. “He’s eager to work with Cadet Kirk; the boy’s clearly going to be a strategic genius.”

“So it would seem.” Spock regarded Marcus, and Bones could feel the steely determination in his mind. “I cannot say I disapprove of pairing Cadet Kirk with Captain Pike. The captain’s experience and demeanor should provide a beneficial, steadying influence on him.”

McCoy bit his tongue, forcing himself not to intervene even though his mind was exploding in four different directions at once.

Marcus tilted his head. “Captain Garrovick’s steadying influence will be similarly beneficial for you as well, I’m sure.”

Spock did not demur, though his eyes narrowed, and Bones waited till Marcus strode away before speaking.

“I won’t accept assignment to the Enterprise without you, Spock. I don’t want to be assigned away from Jim, either, but…” he shrugged unhappily. “Do we need to sign a marriage contract to ensure a joint assignment?”

“That could prove helpful. I will investigate its necessity.” Spock stared after Marcus. “The admiral’s presence here today was not accidental, Leonard. Cadet Kirk must have asked him to attend. If he had not intervened, charges of cheating would have been summarily filed against Kirk, as his invasion of the computer system was illegal and ethically unacceptable by all academy regulations.”

McCoy nodded unhappily. “Will charges be filed anyway?”

“Doubtful, given the admiral’s overt approval of his tactic.” Spock laced their fingers, leading McCoy away, his brow wrinkled with thought. “I do not know if you are aware, Leonard, but Captain Garrovick’s psychological profile discourages his assignment to any post involving combat engagement or exploration into uncharted areas. He is a meticulous man who indulges an absolute minimum of innovative thought. He confirms every command decision with Starfleet Command before proceeding with it.”

McCoy sighed. “Then maybe you can be a beneficial influence on him.”

“That is logical.” Spock did not seem mollified. “However, I believe our abilities will be wasted on the Farragut.”

Leonard lowered his voice. “That’s true. But we have an ace in the hole. Admiral Marcus doesn’t know everything he needs to lay his plans.” He bounced a little, rocking on the balls of his feet. “Unless she’s prepared to let somebody else raise that baby, the Enterprise is gonna need a new science officer as soon as Carol Marcus takes her maternity leave. Enterprise is a combat-certified ship, not just an exploratory vessel; it’s not set up for family occupation.”

“Then perhaps you should accept the assignment there, if Captain Pike can be persuaded to request my reassignment after she delivers the child.”

“Seems kinda dicey, but we could try it. After all, if you can’t get reassigned to the Enterprise, we really can get married, then request assignment together.”

Spock looked at him, eyes flickering with some hooded thought that did not come through their connection. “Yes. As I am a Vulcan, my unconditional right is to be stationed with my spouse.” He hesitated. “Leonard, did you have time to review the medical texts now that you have obtained the key code?”

“Not yet, Spock.” McCoy frowned. “They aren’t translated, and that’s a considerable obstacle. Is there some relevant information I need right away?”

Spock closed his eyes, looking almost pained. “Indeed. As we are now seriously discussing the possibility of impending marriage, there is critical information I must share which might influence your decision. However, this morning will not grant us sufficient opportunity for discussion.”

“You aren’t gonna turn up pregnant, are you?” McCoy eyed him with growing alarm.

“I am not. ...Nor are you. However, the information I have to share is of similarly urgent import.”

“On one hand that’s a relief, but on the other, I’m still gonna worry until you tell me.” McCoy slid an arm around Spock’s. “C’mon, let’s get out of here.”


	38. Chapter 38

Bones powered through the rest of his duty week, glad when Monday came and he could stagger back to the apartment to collapse on the couch, waiting for Spock to get home. 

“Cadet McCoy,” T’Rileh said, lounging against the bar. “I would like to make an inquiry regarding a source of personal discomfort.” She and Solket bracketed him, with K’Niik guarding the exterior of the apartment. 

“It’s about Will, isn’t it.” McCoy sighed and leaned back against the couch. 

“Yes. How may I dissuade him from his pursuit?” She eased herself onto a stool. “I have exhausted the potential of polite rejection.”

“Will’s a natural flirt,” Bones sighed. “I don’t know. I don’t think he can resist a challenge.”

“Would you inform him I am committed to a Vulcan mate?”

“I’ll try it.” Bones agreed. “That doesn’t guarantee he’ll quit, though.”

“May I proceed to impolite forms of discouragement if it does not?”

Bones considered that. “I guess-- as long as you don’t actually hit him or something. Not unless he gets grabby, anyway.”

She recoiled from the very idea. “Is he likely to do so?”

“I don’t know.” Bones could’ve groaned. “Probably not. They drill it into us over and over in med school that we mustn’t touch Vulcans. If he touches you without permission, maybe you ought to try an electric fence tactic.”

“What is that?”

“Zap him a little,” he tapped his temple to illustrate. “With your telepathy, or that nerve pinch thing your people do, or something pretty nasty. I mean, don’t harm him. But make it really unpleasant, so he’ll learn not to try it again.”

“Pavlovian conditioning?”

“Essentially, yeah.” Bones shrugged, feeling guilty. “He ought to know better than that even with an Earth girl. No means no.”

Solket fidgeted just enough for Bones to become aware of him; T’Rileh raised her level gaze to regard her comrade. 

“Humans are affectionate creatures,” he commented. “I find their courtship rituals intriguing.”

“You are welcome to pursue the human Will Cray, if you desire him. I have no interest.” T'Rileh folded her arms.

“Your consideration is appreciated.” 

Bones blinked at them both, worried, wondering exactly how much trouble Will was in. After a moment’s consideration, he prudently decided it was none of his business. He reached and grabbed the padd with his medical texts on it. “Glad to help you whenever you need it, T’Rileh. Maybe you two can help me out, as well. I have these medical books I want to read, but they’re only available in the original Vulcan. If you’d help me translate them, I’d be grateful. I mean, obviously there’s some culturally taboo stuff in here. You wouldn’t believe what I had to go through to get the key codes to these things. But I’m a doctor; I’m gonna be taking care of Spock someday. We’re probably going to become bondmates soon. I need to know this stuff.”

“That is agreeable,” T’Rileh nodded. “Solket?”

“I am willing to assist.”

Bones began picking his way through the texts, enlisting their aid wherever the universal translator seemed to falter, annotating the translated text heavily and enjoying the occasional argument that ensued as they discussed the semantics of disputed words. By the time Spock came home, they’d gone through nearly three chapters. Based on T’Rileh and Solket’s comfort, discussing the information in them did not appear to violate any serious cultural taboos yet, but it was only a matter of time.

The door hissed open and Spock stepped in, raising a brow to find McCoy and his guards sitting on the couch discussing the grammatical significance of an inflection on the end of a particularly obscure verb. Solket leaped to attention, looking sheepish; T’Rileh drew away more gracefully, but also with an air of chagrin.

Spock raised a brow at Bones and shook his head, mild exasperation touching their link. “You have a subversive personality, Leonard.” 

“They were helping me translate this text.” He waved the padd. “Now that you’re here, you can help.”

“I will save you the trouble of translating chapter 35,” Spock said, his voice dry. “Solket, T’Rileh, I will assume your duties now that I am inside. Join K’niik.”

Spock did not immediately begin, however; when the guards had departed, he went to the kitchen and began to prepare food. Bones watched him slice tomatoes and avocado, remaining patient; Spock’s mind felt strung out, taut with tension. He would speak when he was ready.

“I think Solket is interested in pursuing a romantic relationship with my colleague, Will Cray.” Bones got himself a glass of water. “At least, that’s how I understood the conversation I just heard.”

Spock set down the knife and leaned against the counter, his knuckles white. “Yes,” he said quietly. “Solket is an unbonded male of sexual maturity. It is logical that he would be proactive in his desire to procure a mate.”

“Oh?” McCoy perked up, interested. “Why’s that, Spock?”

Spock looked at the salad as if he did not see it. “Please understand Solket’s interest in William Cray is in some important aspects quite different from my own in you. When we met, I was bonded. I had… recourse to that. Solket does not.”

“Recourse.” McCoy considered the word. “That sounds like a relationship is a necessity, a means to avoiding something.”

“You are correct.” Spock added chopped nuts to the salad and began to cut celery. “Leonard, if you agree to bind yourself to me, you must first know of the _pon farr._ It is a biological phenomenon affecting most male Vulcans and even occasional females. It is….” he drew himself up, closing his eyes. “A matter of great shame among us. Perhaps the greatest shame a Vulcan can endure.”

“It’s the reason the textbooks were censored?” McCoy guessed.

“It is the primary reason,” Spock agreed. “It is the one that made it so difficult for an outworlder to obtain the key codes, and the one necessitating your written agreement of confidentiality.”

McCoy got up and went to Spock, taking a head of romaine lettuce and cutting out the core. He began to shred the lettuce, adding it to the salad bowl. 

“You’d better tell me,” he said, trying to send reassurance to Spock: comfort, calm, acceptance. “It’s biological; I’m a doctor. Maybe I can be of help.”

“You will be of help-- if you consent to be my bondmate. A bondmate is what I will require.” Spock’s hands stilled, so tight on the knife that they trembled. “Every seven years, a mature male Vulcan endures the _pon farr_. The closest equivalent on Earth is an animal in heat. We must mate then, Leonard, or we will die.”

McCoy blinked; as far as he could tell, mating didn’t present a problem for him and Spock. “That can’t be all,” he guessed.

“It is not.” Spock put down the knife and rinsed his hands-- over and over, compulsively, as if unaware he had already finished. “During the time of mating, we lose our minds, Leonard. Logic is ripped from us. We become animals driven by fever, lust, and madness. If we cannot mate… we will commit murder or rape to have what we must. Had I been in the throes of pon farr when I returned to Vulcan to sever my bond with T'Pring, I would have been forced to fight Stonn to the death to purge myself of the flame. If there is no challenge, no combat to the death, then mating occurs. If the desired mate is not willing, it does not matter. It is a time of fire, of fever in the blood. Days pass while we persist in this state, ravaging our partners’ bodies to sate our lust. Mates are sometimes injured when they resist: torn, bloodied, bones broken. Some are killed if they will not submit. Even if you choose to offer yourself willingly, you will be immersed in the fever through our meld; you too will feel the flame.”

Bones took a deep breath, steadying himself. “I’m a doctor. If we're still together by then, I won't make you hurt me to take what you need. I can handle this.” He thought of Amanda: tiny, delicate Amanda, subject to such a violent time. “It has to be possible for a human to survive. I mean, your mother must have done so.” He flushed. _It can’t be **that** bad._

Spock shivered, closing his eyes, refusing to contemplate the thought. Leonard reached over to turn off the water, patting Spock’s hands dry with a towel. “I’m a doctor. I’ll prepare medical supplies and have them on hand. If either of us gets hurt, I’ll take care of it as soon as possible.” He steered Spock to the table and served the salad, bringing dressing from the cooler. He poured them each a glass of tea and sat down to eat, aware of Spock’s dark, troubled eyes on him. “We’ll handle it together, Spock.” He gestured with a forkful of greens. “C’mon, eat. I know you must be hungry.”

“Leonard.” Spock gazed at him with dismay. “I do not believe you understand.”

“Probably not.” McCoy chewed and swallowed. “But I’ll work on the readings and learn more. Maybe I can come up with a treatment or something that’ll make it easier for you when the time comes.” He laid his hand firmly over Spock’s. The idea of Spock so far gone in desire he lost all control…. Bones couldn’t deny it was an arousing thought in spite of the danger. “I’ll be willing, Spock. I’ll be there for you.” 

Spock closed his eyes, surrendering. He turned his hand over, fingers lacing into Bones’s, clasping him firmly. “My mother would say I have chosen well, _ashayam.”_

“Damn right you did.” Bones grinned. “But I’m not so sure about Solket.”

He eventually coaxed Spock to eat, then took him to bed and made love to him with his hands and mouth, their two bodies moving gently together until Spock was so sated that he could not respond any longer. Leonard brought a warm cloth and tenderly wiped Spock's belly clean, then moved up Spock’s body to embrace him, their minds nestled together in harmony as they fell asleep.

*****

Bones watched the inevitable drama unfold between his guards and Will the next day. It played out a lot like a train wreck: high speed and high stakes, wreaking carnage among the clueless.

“So, how you doing today?” Will batted his lashes at T’Rileh, holding out a cup of something expensive. “Want some coffee?”

She looked at him like something you’d scrape off your shoe. “No. I am on duty.”

Bones chuckled and snatched the cup for himself, inhaling the steam. “Vulcans prefer tea, Will. At least, mine does.” He took a swig; it was way too sweet. What the hell did Will think aliens liked to drink? Not candy, that was for sure. 

“Would you accept some tea if you were off-duty?” Will looked at T’Rileh like he’d been born a lemur or something, all big eyes and mournful little face. 

“No,” she said and vanished into the operating room to check it over. John was still busy stocking the supply trays with sterile wipes in case the surgeons started to sweat bullets over a dying patient. 

“I would accept tea if you brought it,” Solket told Will, who gave him a half-hearted, sickly-looking smile.

“Uh, I’ll keep that in mind.” Will blinked at him, looking a little like a deer in headlights as Solket stepped forward. 

“You are an attractive human, adequately skilled in your profession,” Solket observed. “And I am available, though T’Rileh is not. Perhaps I will bring you coffee tomorrow. How would you prefer it to be prepared?”

“Black, two sugars,” Bones told him helpfully when Will seemed unable to respond other than by imitating a goldfish, his mouth opening and closing without a sound. 

“I will bring it here at the beginning of the day,” Solket said. “Then I will request you to dine with me when your shift is complete.”

“Uh, you will?” Will gulped, turning beet red. He glanced around, half-panicked, to see if anyone had overheard. Bones was pretty sure if Solket had been human, he would have started laughing. 

“Still waters run deep,” Bones advised Will, who fled with all possible haste. 

“Unlike T’Rileh, I have no bondmate,” Solket told McCoy smoothly. “But it would seem your friend is not sexually attracted to me. Perhaps he does not prefer males.”

“I’ll try to find out whether he swings that way,” Bones promised. It was the least he could do, really.

The technician wheeled his cart out of the OR and T’Rileh finished her sweep, then beckoned Bones inside; he and the surgical team filed in together. Hopefully Bones wouldn’t need any surgical wipes or emergency crash supplies today; this ought to be a relatively simple hiatal hernia repair-- except his patient was an Edosian, and they could get touchy under anesthesia. It was the extra arm sprouting out of their chests; it reduced lung capacity and created a tricky skeletal concentration right over his operating field. It complicated the whole thoracic cavity, actually-- venous distribution, ribcage segmentation, musculature, stomach and esophageal tract, enervation, the whole shebang. 

Secretly Bones thought Edosians looked like an early twentieth-century experiment with fertility drugs gone horribly wrong, producing a deeply-embedded set of conjoined twins, but hey. They made it work.

He laid out the spinal support pillow for the Edosian’s long, arched neck, then reviewed his tray of sterile supplies. 

“Get that technician back in here,” he snapped. Dammit, John was always screwing things up somehow. “My dermal regenerator’s missing a power cell.”

“Right away, doctor.” An attending nurse scurried out as they wheeled the sedated Edosian in and the two nurses pushing the cart lifted him onto the operating table. 

John stepped back in as they were settling the patient, looking harried. “Sorry about that, doctor.” He stepped up hastily, his amber-brown skin gleaming with sweat, and reached out to hand Bones the power cell.

“No, you put it in, Harrison; I’ve already scrubbed--” Bones started, impatient, but the man seized his arm and dizziness swayed Bones as the world began to spin away in blinding swirls of white light. He heard T’Rileh shout as she lunged back into the OR and flung herself toward him, but she was too late. A dark, stained brick wall faded in to replace the sterile aluminum of the operating suite, and the unmistakable hiss of a hypospray stung at his neck. The world blazed red for a split second, then went dark.


	39. Chapter 39

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: POV change. For a while we'll be riding around in Spock's head. So strap in and get ready for some logic! Also for some enemies-to-friends? If I can ever get the stubborn buggers to cooperate?
> 
> At any rate, there be plot a-comin'. ;-)

Spock sat quietly on the sofa in the apartment he shared with Leonard, re-stringing and tuning his lyre. Out on the bay, fog rose from the water, shrouding the city so thickly that he could barely see the next building. 

He had not played much for a long while, preferring instead to focus on his sketching, as it gave him the opportunity to focus his attention on Leonard in a socially acceptable way. Now that they had initiated an intimate relationship, he could satisfy his attraction using other more concrete methods; therefore, he might return to music as a means of self-expression. It would be especially desirable since Leonard wished to hear him play. 

Leonard was a gentle, faint hum at the back of his mind-- focused as usual on his duties at the hospital, professional and calm, a little amused by something. Spock soothed his longing by indulging in a moment of focus on their connection. Leonard’s next respite from his work, shortened though it necessarily was, would occur in two days. He looked forward to renewing their intimacy and exploring new means of expressing it.

He blinked as Leonard’s presence in his mind abruptly transitioned from calm to shock-- and then blinked out. 

Lyre forgotten, he snatched for his communicator, but it chirped before he could open it.

“Spock.” T’Rileh’s clipped voice came. “A technician from the hospital has abducted McCoy and transported him away.”

“Order an emergency transport locked to my comm signal.” He forced his voice to remain calm.

It took an agonizing minute for the hospital to muster its resources and accomplish the beam-in; Spock materialized in the lobby just as T’Rileh rounded the corner at a trot.

“Who took him?” His fists were clenched taut, and he held wrath at bay by a thread as she led him to the operating room. An Edosian still lay sedated on the operating table, forgotten amidst the chaos as doctors and nurses scuttled everywhere.

“A surgical technician.” T’Rileh tapped at a hospital computer link, summoning up the man’s employment record: the name John Harrison appeared next to the man’s photo; he was brown-skinned, his eastern ethnicity one his given name did not predict. Spock scanned the details swiftly. He had been employed at the hospital since early November; the limited information on his employment card indicated his paperwork was in order and gave his place of origin as London, England, with Indian parentage. 

“Contact PRevolutions and apprise them of the abduction; mobilize their resources. I will contact Starfleet Command. Solket, speak to the appropriate hospital administrators. K’niik, see to it the Edosian patient receives care.” Spock already had his comm out, dialing it to the Enterprise’s frequency. “Spock to Captain Pike.” He could go farther up the ladder, and he would if he had to, but Pike was an ally who wouldn’t delay Spock with questions. 

“Mr. Spock. What’s wrong?” Pike was unexpectedly acute at reading his tone-- or perhaps Spock’s controls had lapsed and revealed his distress.

“Captain. Cadet McCoy has been abducted. I need comprehensive records on his kidnapper, John Harrison, employment identification number 238475087 alpha.” 

“ASAP, Spock. Reynolds, get on that. I’ll beam in,” Pike cut the comm channel. 

Spock reached out and caught a nurse by the shoulder. “Bring me Harrison’s supervisor at once.”

She scampered, and Spock stood stunned amidst the flurry of activity, feeling precious seconds bleed away. He was still unable to sense Leonard’s mind; Leonard must be unconscious. Panic threatened to blur his mind, but he forced it away ruthlessly. He had transported out; he could be anywhere on Earth or perhaps on an adjacent space vehicle within roughly 10,000km of the hospital’s position when the transport occurred. He hoped it was not the latter; that might prove disastrous, as a ship could have departed the solar system already.

A ringing hum announced Pike’s materialization; Spock turned to greet him. “Captain. Your assistance is appreciated. I require an immediate general quarantine of any vessels departing this system. Time is of the essence.”

“Right away.” Pike got on the horn and delivered the orders, then returned his attention to Spock. “Records should be incoming to your comm code as my officers uncover them.” Pike took Spock by the shoulder and led him toward a quiet corner. “Do you think this was some crazy fan of McCoy’s holo ads, Spock?”

Spock tried to calm his mind adequately to compute probabilities. “It seems a potential possibility. However, a fan would be hard-pressed to orchestrate such a neat removal. A different motive is perhaps more likely. Cadet Kirk warned us of the need for security some days ago; it seems logical to assume there is animosity among the warhawk factions, who would potentially desire McCoy’s removal well before the referendum.”

“Yeah. My gut instinct says you’re right.” Pike tapped at a hospital terminal, scowling when it requested authorization. “Somebody get me an admini--”

“Captain.” A harassed woman hurried up, Solket crowding along behind her. “I’m the lead administrator for this facility. Emily Krauss.” She skipped shaking his hand and swiftly logged in to the system. “Let me call up personnel records. Here we are. Hired November 4. Personnel reviews adequate, not exceptional. Aptitude scores similar… paperwork all in order, as you can see. No indications of aberrant personality traits.”

“Figures. Maybe somebody cobbled him up a false ID or cleaned his old one. Spock, contact Mr. Reynolds and let’s see what else we’ve got.” Pike scowled.

Spock did so, patching the feed into the hospital’s display. “...No priors, clean psych scan….whoa, what’s this.” Pike stabbed out one finger, stopping the scroll of information. “You see that thumbprint code? Somebody’s altered this file. Recently.”

Spock narrowed his eyes at it. “Yes. Fascinating.” In fact, it wasn’t; he didn’t have the patience to sit here and pore over computer records; he needed to act: to run, to find, to strike out, to rescue McCoy. His mind fretted over the absent space where Leonard belonged.

“Stay with me, Commander.” Pike set a steady hand on his shoulder. “We’ll find him.” He turned to T’Rileh. “Give us a second-by-second summation of what happened.”

Spock’s frustration grew as time stretched-- no transporter records could be isolated, indicating the use of a private array. Closing the ports wouldn’t be possible forever, but at present, ship and cargo checks were all coming up empty. John Harrison’s ID record turned out to be a cipher, bland and ambiguous and curiously empty-- and all they could discover was his standard work profile and documentation. 

No records of ‘John Harrison’ were extant elsewhere in the Terran database, ether; checks were still in process for other planetary systems, but Spock and Pike both believed they’d turn up nothing. They couldn’t find Harrison’s face on any other security records outside the hospital; hospital camera logs showed him plodding around doing his job, occasionally interacting with McCoy but showing him neither particular animosity nor interest.

“This guy’s a ringer, Spock.” Pike rubbed the stubble on his chin. “That thumbprint code… somebody created John Harrison as a fake ID for an undercover operative.”

“An operative for the warhawk faction.” Spock hesitated with treason on his tongue. “Perhaps the ad--”

Pike stopped him with a sidelong gesture of his hand. “I’m gonna have to talk to some more people, Spock. If we get more information I’ll call you. I don’t see there’s anything else we can do right now. You should get some rest.”

Spock shook his head, mute. “I have not exhausted every avenue of possibility,” he said simply. 

Pike drew Spock out of the way as a group of technicians trundled the unconscious patient out of the room. The wheels of the cart rumbled, covering his words. “Spock, don’t go try to confront the top man. You’ll just tip our hand.” He frowned at Spock, forbidding. “This needs to stay under official radar as much as it can. He’ll deflect our efforts if he becomes officially involved. He’s got plenty of power to do it.”

“That is not who I meant,” Spock said, equally quietly. “Though I would very much like to interview him.” His fingers flexed; personal confrontation with Admiral Marcus would serve as a last resort. He would force the man’s mind, if he must. “I am currently considering another individual.”

Pike sighed, reluctance written all over his face. “Yeah. Kirk might know something.” He gave Spock a calm look, warning. “But I don’t think you’ll pry it out of him.”

“He will tell me,” Spock said, certainty like steel in his mind. 

“Don’t fuck him over. Do you read me?” Pike’s eyes narrowed. “No forced telepathy. That’s an order, Commander. Violate it and I’ll bust you all the way down to protozoan life form and assign you to third shift Stellar Cartography, and you won’t ever find your boyfriend-- and that’d be a mercy compared to what Starfleet would do to you.” 

Pike shook his head, scowling, but his eyes were still kind; they understood. “McCoy’s a mouthy bastard, and he’s pissed some powerful people off, but I’m hoping he’s too popular to terminate. That’d create way too much publicity. I think they’ll keep him incognito till just before the referendum, then try to wipe his memory of the abduction and return him in a way that’ll discredit him in the public eye: they’ll make out that he’s been off on a bender. I’ll keep sending you whatever we dig up; I’m gonna go up and get some more crewmen on this. We might be able to do more from up there. You got any way we could track him?”

Spock tilted his head, hope dawning. “In fact, I do.” He pulled out a padd and began to type out the chemical composition of Vulcaya. “This Vulcan element is not found naturally occurring on Earth, but it emits a harmless radioactive signature that should be discoverable, if scans are adequately calibrated and there are no masking influences immediately adjacent. Leonard wears a trace amount of it in a piece of jewelry I gave to him.”

“I’ll see what our scanners can do, but it’s a needle in a damn big haystack.” Pike prepared for beam-out.

Spock was already turning away, skimming his records for Kirk’s comm code, which he had used only once but had not discarded. As an instructor, if he possessed the student’s identifying address, he could do a location check on any cadet at the academy. Kirk was in his room alone, by the looks of it. 

Spock arranged to be beamed onto the steps of the dormitory building, which he took two at a time. A turbolift was open in the lobby so he rode up, forcing himself not to fidget with impatience.

Kirk answered his tap, wearing a soiled T-shirt and sweats, with a strong scent of whiskey on his breath even though it was only midafternoon. Spock stared at him with considerable antipathy.

“Take a sober-all. I require your full intelligence for this endeavor.”

Kirk bristled at him, eyes narrowing with unconcealed dislike. “What, here without your boyfriend? You screw up and piss him off or something? I’m sure as hell not gonna tell you how to fix it.”

_Very well._ Spock drew himself upright, affronted. He would not mince words or delay with small-talk. “At approximately eleven hundred hours and fifty-seven minutes this morning, Doctor Leonard Horatio McCoy was abducted from the operating room of the--” 

“Fuck!” Kirk reached out and hauled him in by the shirt front, palming the door shut behind him. “What the hell happened?” He started rummaging on his desk; Spock spied a hypo protruding from a drawer and proffered it. Kirk injected the sobering agent and grimaced. 

“I have the hospital security footage here.” Spock plugged a data chip from his comm into the computer terminal on Kirk’s desk; it projected a two-dimensional representation of the operating room onto the air in the middle of the room. They watched together as the abduction transpired. 

Kirk watched, his full, sensual mouth pinching into a narrow line, then reached to the computer and ran the footage back, pausing on a shot of John Harrison. 

“What do you know of this man?” Spock said softly. “His records are inconclusive. I believe he is an operative of unknown forces, working under false identification.” 

“I… need a day or two. I’ll have to get back to you on that,” Kirk said slowly. 

“Leonard may not have two days. He may already be beyond our help.” Spock felt the absence of Leonard’s consciousness in his mind keenly, like a black hole sucking at the edges of his control. “You know John Harrison.” It was not a question. 

“I’ve seen this man. Yes.” Kirk raised laser-blue eyes to him. “I don’t know enough about him to answer, though. I need time to find out more.” 

“What do you know?” 

“I know your guess is right.” Kirk didn’t elaborate. 

“Who is he working for?” 

“I’m not sure.” Kirk’s eyes narrowed; he looked back down to the paused hologram. “That’s why I need the time.” 

“Cadet Kirk.” Spock leaned in, hoping to intimidate. “Are you also working for someone?” 

“None of your damn business.” Kirk’s eyes snapped; he didn’t back down, squaring his shoulders, ready to fight. 

“I regard that as confirmation of my general query. You will now inform me of the particulars.” 

“No, I won’t.” Kirk folded his arms, stubborn as a mule. 

“Leonard needs your help.” 

“He has it. That’ll have to be enough for you.” Kirk glared at him. 

“We would work together more efficiently if we agreed to pool our resources and cooperate.” The words tasted sour in Spock’s mouth. 

“You’ll have to follow my lead.” 

“Insofar as it confirms my own perceptions of--” 

“No. Without question.” Jim leaned forward, bright blue eyes intent. “There’s a whole fucking house of cards here you don’t know about. One wrong move and you could bring it down-- maybe around Bones’s ears. You want that?” His final words snapped like a whip. 

Spock recoiled, drawing his spine straight. “If you betray Leonard’s trust in you, I will personally ensure the consequences are severe beyond your comprehension.” 

Kirk scoffed. “So much for logic and emotional control.” 

“Such concerns are trivial to me when weighed against Leonard’s well-being.” Spock released the words through clenched teeth. 

“It’s a good thing I believe you mean that.” Kirk snorted. “OK, here’s what you should do. Get with that PR company of yours, get your dad, get everybody associated with the peaceniks’ ad campaign. Have the word go out that McCoy’s missing. Do a press conference asking for ordinary citizens’ participation in locating him, release details on a relatively normal suspect who’s been after him-- make one up if you need to-- and start a manhunt somewhere obscure. Do anything and everything you can think of to make Harrison think you don’t know fuck-all about what happened.” 

Kirk fixed Spock with a calm stare. “Sell it hard. The more heat’s on his abductor, the more danger he’s in. His best chance is if Harrison thinks he got away Scot-free and the hunt’s going somewhere else. Keep Starfleet out of it entirely.” He drummed his fingertips on the tabletop, thinking. 

“Give me eighteen hours to find out whatever I can. Then meet me at the public transporter site on Angel Island. Give your classes take-home work for at least a week or arrange for substitutes while you’re involved in the manhunt. Come armed. I know it’s a stretch; you probably have that uniform tattooed on your skin, but try not to look like you’re in Starfleet.” 

Spock stared at him, wheels whirring inside his mind, calculating and discarding allegiances, potentials, betrayals, and possibilities. “Very well,” he said softly. “I will meet you in eighteen hours.” 


	40. Chapter 40

Spock met with the PRevolutions staff, his father, and the security detail, enduring an eternal conversation during which they rehashed the events of the day over and over, then spent considerable time formulating their strategy. He did not reveal his meeting with Kirk, though he passed on the recommendations he had received in the form of his own opinions. He found them well-received, forming the foundation for their efforts. His father raised a single elegant brow at him, and Spock knew Sarek was aware he was concealing information and planned to pursue the real search on his own.

Sarek did not demur; Spock supposed it was either a mark of trust, or perhaps of indifference to Leonard’s fate. For the sake of his mother, he decided to assume the former. 

Spock could not focus properly on fine-tuning their plans, preoccupied by the absence of Leonard in his mind-- constantly reaching to verify it, hoping to find some flicker of Leonard’s consciousness had reappeared there. But there was none; for all he knew, Leonard might be dead. Or injured, or drugged… he could not be sure. Worry was illogical. He must wait until facts were known.

“I will go with you,” T’Rileh fell in beside him as he departed. Startled from his thoughts, he lifted his head to blink at her.

“I am uncertain what you mean.”

“It is clear to me you have not told all you know. Logic indicates you mean to seek McCoy yourself, utilizing Starfleet resources and assistance. As he was lost under my supervision, I too have a duty to assist in his retrieval.”

“I cannot allow it.” Spock shook his head soberly. “You are not to blame for Leonard’s disappearance. His insistence on abandoning security procedures rendered it impossible for you to discharge your duties in this case.”

“You will need someone to assist with your efforts.”

“I will have a companion.” Spock hesitated. “However, I do not entirely trust him. Let us settle on a frequency we will use to communicate; I will try to check in as frequently as possible, and I may ask you to send assistance or provide backup at need.”

“That is agreeable.” T’Rileh tipped her chin forward, shame at her failure slumping her shoulders. “Do not hesitate to call on me; I will answer.”

“I am honored.” Spock set her communicator to receive his coded frequency, then offered her the ta’al. “I have preparations to make. If I do not return… a file will be sent to your address containing all I know and suspect. If you investigate my disappearance, my father will reward you. Pass on the contents of the file to Captain Pike, as well.”

“I will do so. And I will require no reward.” She returned the gesture and strode away, crisp clicks echoing in the hall from the heels of her boots.

Spock turned away. He had numerous preparations to make and limited time in which to make them.

*****

Spock took the precaution of arriving early to the rendezvous, phaser ready in case of ambush, but Kirk did not arrive until the precise moment he had promised, and he was alone. His fair skin showed evidence of sleeplessness, dark circles gathered under his blue eyes, his hair artfully mussed.

“You’re here. Good. I saw the tail end of that press conference you arranged. Looked good.” His jaw was stiff despite the praise. 

“Have you discovered any helpful information?”

“I believe I have.” Declining to share the relevant details, Kirk tapped at the on-site transporter panel. “Let’s go.”

They beamed to new coordinates somewhere on the east side of the bay. A two-wheeled conveyance awaited them, tipped over on a narrow stand. Spock eyed it with dislike as Kirk picked two helmets off the seat and handed one to Spock. “Starfleet logs identities and beaming records; we don’t want to leave that kind of an easy trail for this guy. It’ll take a little time to travel across country, but this bike’s been sitting in my garage back in Iowa for decades; it’s not registered with the traffic authority and won’t throw our ID up on their monitors. We’ll take it as far as we can and throw any pursuit off our trail. Good thing most of the roads between here and Albuquerque are so remote they’re not on the auto-monitoring grid, or we’d have a dozen traffic cops after us in half an hour.”

“Albuquerque is our destination?” To travel there on wheels would take considerable time. He eased the helmet over his head. 

“Nope.” Kirk threw a leg over the bike and strapped on his helmet, then pulled on a pair of thin black gloves. “Get on.” He tilted the solar panel mounted on the dash, lining up with the sun, then kicked the ignition as Spock gingerly climbed aboard and looked for a place to hang on. 

“My waist,” Kirk said impatiently, glancing over his shoulder, and Spock obeyed with considerable distaste, holding on lightly-- then clinging hard as the bike lunged forward, kicking up a cloud of dust in their wake. 

It was a rough ride for the first hour or two, as they often rode parallel to the road instead of on it, avoiding the traffic-monitoring kiosks positioned along the verge. After they got off the main roads, as Kirk had promised, those thinned out and vanished. Kirk got back on the battered tarmac and accelerated, leaning forward behind the windscreen. After a moment Spock copied him, streamlining the bike to present less wind resistance. 

The hollow in his mind obsessed him; he couldn’t stop poking at it like poking his tongue into the socket of a missing tooth-- until suddenly, without prelude or warning, McCoy was _there_. 

Spock nearly fell off the bike, releasing Kirk’s waist and straightening without thinking. Kirk decelerated quickly and slewed the bike sideways, coming to a stop balanced on one foot.

“What the fuck, Spock?”

“It is Leonard. He is alive.” Spock knew his voice betrayed his joy, but he didn’t care; certainly he was too pleased to waste time admonishing Kirk for omitting the title due an officer of his rank. “He has awakened.” 

Kirk yanked off his helmet and fished for a bottle of water. “See what you can get from him. Direction, location, anything?” He swallowed and wiped his mouth with a sigh.

For the first time, Spock truly regretted the choice he and Leonard had made not to move quickly and form a full marriage bond. “My sense of him is too vague to communicate such detailed information. I merely know he is there, and he is emotionally distressed.” 

Kirk passed over another water bottle for Spock. “Well, at least he’s alive. You tell me if anything changes.”

It was not as though either he or Kirk could do anything about it if it did, but Spock nodded and drank. The water tasted flat, too warm, but it would keep him functioning. 

“Let’s get a move on. Don’t do that again; you could fall off or make me wipe out. I’m gonna push hard. We need to eat some road.”

“I will not,” Spock agreed, returning the bottle, and tucked himself behind Kirk again as they set out, accelerating quickly toward the eastern horizon. A dilapidated, half-illegible fading green sign gave the distance to Bakersfield in miles; Spock amused himself briefly making the conversion to metric units, but mostly he luxuriated in his contact with Leonard, trying to send strength and support over the connection.

 _We will come._ He fixed a picture of himself and Jim in his mind, projecting it toward McCoy with all his strength. 

Jim stopped them again late in the afternoon for food and water. “I feel like something out of a Hunter S. Thompson novel.” He wandered over to urinate against a Joshua tree. “This is definitely bat country.” They were most of the way to Death Valley, thanks to Jim driving like a maniac on every back-road shortcut he could find, even kicking up sand across the desert sometimes to cut corners. 

Spock could see no signs of bats. The landscape here was harsh, full of rolling hills and blasted stones that reminded Spock sharply of Vulcan’s Forge. They traveled along the edge of a shallow declivity, moving steadily eastward. To the north lay empty hills, and to the south lay gentler wasteland. Perhaps at some time in the planet’s remote geological past, a volcanic explosion had caused lava to form into small pebbles of relatively uniform size and distributed them in even scattershot sprays across the ground, where they still lay undisturbed even now, monuments to the lack of rainfall in this locale. However, Spock had neither time nor inclination to investigate more closely and verify his geological assumptions.

Given the author Kirk had mentioned, Spock decided it would be accurate to identify the bat comment as a reference to twentieth century drug culture. He raised a brow at Kirk, who shook himself off and zipped up briskly, not at all self-conscious. “I see no mammals of the order chiroptera. I would recommend against consumption of illegal intoxicants at this time.” 

“How’s Bones?” Jim ignored his sarcasm. 

Spock had a ready answer for that. “He is very angry.”

“Nothing unusual, then.” Kirk rolled his eyes. “I hope he has sense enough not to mouth off too much. Harrison’s a short-tempered fucker.”

“What do you know of Harrison?” Spock accepted a foil packet with some reluctance; it was labeled “vegetable stew,” but the substance inside had the color and consistency of toothpaste. It tasted of salt and little else. “Where are we going?”

“Nothing good.” Kirk sighed. “We’re headed for an old Army base in Nevada. I’ll brief you when we stop to sleep. We’ve still got a long push in front of us, and we’ll need to be rested when we get there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you, like Spock, haven't read _Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas,_ by Hunter S. Thompson, my attorney and I recommend you do so. I also recommend you get the illustrated version. Ralph Steadman's drawings are just as trippy and visceral as Thompson's prose. 
> 
> Do be warned, however, that Thompson's story involves accounts of extreme drug abuse and associated paranoia and psychotic behavior, including violence, sexual violence, rape, underage sex/sexual violence/rape, scatological descriptions, racial prejudice, etc. Spock does not approve. Kirk thinks it was a wild ride and enjoyed the grim, dark humor.
> 
> The movie doesn't do it justice, so watching the movie doesn't count.


	41. Chapter 41

Ironically enough, Death Valley was bitter cold under a stark winter moonrise, the wind of their velocity biting cruelly at Spock’s hands. Eventually in desperation he sought out the pockets of Kirk’s jacket and tucked his hands inside, soaking up the human’s body heat, and pressed himself as close behind Kirk as he could. He estimated the temperature was somewhere near the freezing point of water. Combined with the wind chill of high speed, it was all but intolerable.

Even Kirk was shivering when they stopped; he hastily pulled out a small propane ring and lit it. They stood warming themselves over the blue flames for a few minutes before pulling a small tent and sleeping gear out of the motorcycle panniers. Kirk put up the tent; Spock’s hands were still too chilled to function well. Spock found a pan and heated water, then wrapped his hands around a flimsy tin mug, drinking it hot to raise his core temperature. 

Kirk stirred a packet of cocoa powder into his own mug of water, alternately sipping and licking at a chocolate mustache. Spock waited for him to speak, watching thoughts and feelings flit across his handsome face. 

“John Harrison’s a covert operative. I’m not sure where he came from, but I know he has close ties to some of the highest officials in Starfleet.” Kirk sipped his cocoa and grimaced. “He’s a go-to guy for really dirty jobs, and he’s damn good at getting them done. Scuttlebutt says he’s not entirely human; he’s been enhanced somehow.” He tipped back the last of the cocoa and looked up at the gibbous moon, so bright that it faded out most of the stars. “I couldn’t find out if he nabbed Bones under somebody else’s orders or on his own. The records show he has close ties to Area 51, so I took a gamble. That’s where we’re headed.”

Spock frowned. “I do not know the significance of this designation.”

“It’s not a Starfleet code. It’s an old Earth Army base, like I said: sited on Groom Lake, in the Nevada Test and Training Range. Not far from Yucca Flat, the nuclear bombing test area. It used to be super-secret.” He gave Spock a smirk. “Some people thought they were hiding aliens in there a long time before you Vulcans showed up and said hello. But mostly the United States government just used it for experimental aircraft development and nasty chemical warfare tests.”

“It sounds dangerous.” Not unlike Vulcan’s Forge, again-- many parts of the Vulcan desert were still hot with radioactivity from wars that had ended long aeons past. 

“Yeah, I’ve got a couple of enviro suits in case we have to go digging around anywhere contaminated.” Kirk shivered. “It’s damn cold. Let’s get some sleep.”

They crawled into the tent together and Spock zipped up his sleeping bag, glad of its thermal insulation. He composed himself on his back with his arms folded on his chest, aware of Kirk staring at him from only a few inches away. Moonlight seeped through the thin nylon walls of the tent and cast a glow over Kirk’s silhouette, obscuring the color of his eyes and hair, painting him in subtle shades of silvery gray. Objectively he was quite beautiful, and Spock was surprised to realize he would have liked to draw Kirk as he appeared in the moment, to see if he could capture the aetherial quality of the light on his skin. 

Kirk stared at him, frowning. “That’s damn creepy. You look like a dead man in a coffin or a vampire or something. You sleep lying like that when you’re with Bones?”

Spock glared at him sidelong. “No.” It was none of the man’s business how he and Leonard slept together.

“That’s a relief,” Kirk grunted. “I’ve gotta say, I really don’t see what he sees in you.”

“I suggest you restrain your impertinent personal remarks and focus your attention on retrieving Leonard from John Harrison instead.”

“You don’t see what he sees in me either, do you. Why are you even here?”

Spock stared straight up at the ceiling of the tent, perturbed that Kirk would not let him rest. “You have vital knowledge I am not privy to. You are unorthodox, disrespectful, and erratic, but you obtain desirable results a disproportionate fraction of the time. While I do not trust you, I believe Leonard is safe to do so.”

That seemed to suffice. Kirk lay back and silence fell, broken by the soft flutter of the dry desert wind in the thin fabric of the tent.

“Cadet Kirk.” Spock spoke without having planned his words, almost surprised by his own voice.

“Yeah, what?”

“As you are now aware of my involvement with the Kobayashi Maru, I believe it proper to offer an apology for the unfair severity of the second test. As you may have guessed, I composed it subsequent to your argument with Leonard. That, combined with the haste of its composition and my particular familiarity with your psychological profile, influenced my judgment in its making. When I realized it had been an inappropriate instrument, I personally encouraged the board to approve your request for a third test.”

He stared at the ceiling of the tent, listening to Kirk’s breathing stop for a moment, then resume. 

“Thanks,” Kirk said eventually. “I appreciate your honesty.” He paused for so long that Spock thought he must be asleep. “Bones said you’d apologize if you could. Guess I should’ve believed him.”

Spock did not know how to respond to Kirk’s comment, so he settled for silence. After a while Kirk’s breathing gradually evened out into the rhythm of sleep. Within a few minutes, Spock also slept.

False dawn wakened him, and Spock crawled stiffly out of the tent to ignite the propane ring and heat more water. The thermal bag only did so much against sub-freezing temperatures, and he had not slept well given the hard ground and the presence of Kirk so near at hand. 

Kirk followed close behind. “Coffee,” he muttered, and fished out a silvery packet of freeze-dried ersatz coffee crystals. Spock wrinkled his nose at the overpowering smell, but Kirk gained a measure of alertness after he’d drunk a cup of the stuff. He handed Spock breakfast-- a protein bar this time, far superior to the packaged puree. 

“You believe Harrison may be keeping Leonard in an abandoned Army facility,” Spock said. “How do you plan to verify your guess?”

“Area 51’s a historical park,” Kirk said. “We can wander in like tourists, then make a plan and hack our way through a few computer locks until we get into the classified facility. After that we’ll sneak around until we find what we’re looking for.”

“If it is there.” Spock could not judge his distance from McCoy, who was still present in his mind-- a restrained, even buzz that indicated he was sleeping. 

“Yeah, well. I have some high security clearance codes I’d rather not use unless we get caught; they’ll expose us to Harrison, but they’ll get us obeyed for a while by any lackeys or flunkies on the staff in there.” 

“How did you obtain high security codes, cadet?”

“In the grand old spirit of the twentieth century, ‘I could tell you, commander, but then I’d have to kill you.’” Kirk didn’t smile. The propane stove lit his face eerily from below, making his eyes shine startling blue. Spock didn’t flinch, meeting his stare levelly. 

“C’mon. Let’s pack up and get back on the bike.” Kirk tossed out the dregs of his cold coffee.

Spock was in agreement, and they made quick work of their little campsite, letting the propane ring cool as they worked, then stuffing it in one of the panniers.

Spock didn’t like Kirk’s plan… too many uncontrolled variables. Really there wasn’t any reason at all to believe McCoy might be at Area 51. But Spock had no preferable options, so he climbed on the bike and tucked his hands into Kirk’s jacket pockets again as they took off toward the impending sunrise, kicking up dust and gravel behind them.

They stopped in Tonopah and Kirk dragged Spock into a department store that catered to tourists; Spock blinked, appalled, at the selection of clothing he picked out. “We’re going in as tourists, Spock. Gotta play the part.” Kirk tried on a straw hat and an appalling pair of sunglasses. Badly-tailored slacks and a loudly colored shirt completed the ensemble-- no, they didn’t. He added contrasting socks and a pair of athletic shoes, too, and similar clothing sized for Spock, holding it up against him to test the fit. 

“These clothes are highly objectionable.” Spock accepted a pair of louvered sunglasses with distaste, then put them back onto the shelf and tried another set with large boxy frames for optimum coverage.

“If you’re going old man on me, get a set with the wraparound side panels.” Kirk handed him a second pair, which he deemed acceptable and put into their basket. “And knee socks.”

“I am not wearing short pants. It is prohibitively cold.”

Kirk scowled. “OK, so you’ve got a point. Sweats, then.”

Spock accepted the exercise pants perforce, and when they had paid, they roared off into the desert again. They stopped and changed behind a convenient outcrop, though Spock felt highly reluctant to bare himself to the cold desert air-- not to mention Kirk’s intrusive eyes. Kirk looked him over quite frankly, not bothering to hide his curiosity. 

“You look pretty much like a human to me.”

“I assure you, I am not human.” Spock hauled up the exercise pants, glad he hadn’t been forced to strip off his underclothing. He would not countenance inquiry into the particulars of his genitalia from an oversexed, jealous juvenile. 

Kirk shrugged, pulling his T-shirt off to expose a well-muscled, mostly hairless chest with coral-pink nipples. He covered back up with the wildly colored shirt, taking his time about it. Spock pulled his gaze away, mouth pinched, wishing he could have located Leonard on his own.


	42. Chapter 42

They rode into Rachel at midday, looking like idiots. They ordered pie at a diner and loaded themselves down with tourist brochures and maps, then set out for the military museum facility. Kirk left off his helmet, the wind ruffling his hair back as he drove leisurely through town and out into the desert, past the old-fashioned chain link and razor-wire fence, through a swing-arm gate, ignoring a forest of obsolete signs that warned against trespassing. Apparently they were only for show, as no security guards appeared to challenge their entry. 

The desert looked stark and uninviting, flat ochre sands dotted with half-dead scrub. Drab dun mountains lurked gloomily on the horizon. The landscape reminded Spock of Vulcan, and he found himself longing painfully for McCoy: for their happy days at his childhood home, Leonard standing before the guest-room window with the panorama of the Forge spread out behind him, smiling at Spock and opening his arms to welcome him into an embrace. 

The base was flat except for a few low buildings that mushroomed out of the dust, set in neat rows next to a forsaken airstrip. A small, random assortment of hovercars and bikes sat parked outside the largest of the buildings, and banners festooned with ludicrous pictures of slit-eyed aliens with elongated heads and necks flapped in the breeze on its front. Spock raised a skeptical eyebrow at them.

Kirk jammed on his straw hat and strode forward with the aggressive gait of a confirmed gawker. The two of them paid for tickets and went inside, where at least it was warm. The exhibits within varied between the ludicrous and the dull, some of them explicating the local history of exploiting paranormal enthusiasts, cryptozoologists, and members of the lunatic fringe. Others spoke of the base’s military history and its declassified projects, showing diagrams of various military aircraft, nuclear explosion clouds, nuclear waste storage facilities, and historical figures involved in the covert ops the base had served to conceal.

Kirk wandered around with his hands jammed in his pockets, apparently reading each display with rapt attention, while Spock tried to be subtle in his efforts to locate concealed doors or other areas through which they might penetrate the private areas of the base. Not many people shared the museum with them, just a bored attendant and an elderly couple. 

Spock stared down at a computer panel scrolling through an account of the Roswell UFO incident. The rapacious human appetite for conspiracy theory, combined with a discussion of the most heinous imaginable pseudo-science, paired with conflicting Terran xenophobic/xenophilic inclinations… the record was disturbing, to say the least.

“I’m gonna go take a leak,” Kirk announced a little too loudly, nudging Spock with his elbow. “C’mon.”

Spock doubted he required assistance for the activity, but he followed, hoping Kirk had found a way to expand their search for McCoy. 

Kirk bellied up to the urinals, giving Spock a glance that drew him alongside, albeit reluctantly. 

“I’ve put a slave circuit on their site-to-site,” he murmured, under cover of the flush. “We can activate it remotely later. Let’s get out of here and do some hacking.”

Spock followed him out wordlessly. They rode into town, where Kirk rented a lodging and they holed up for the afternoon. Kirk drew out a remote terminal. “We can’t get anywhere with that attendant watching, but with that circuit overriding their transporter functions, we can activate it remotely, later, then poke around and find an ingress when nobody’s there.” He pulled up a program and dumped it onto a padd. “This is the security protocol for public transportation sites. I need you to write a subroutine that replaces the automatic identification registry with a false one-- those two old people from the museum, for example.” He smirked. Sure enough, their identifications had been scraped and stored on the padd. “I’ll take care of patching it in when it’s done.”

“I am not entirely familiar with this coding language.” In light of McCoy’s capture and abduction, Spock did not point out that such an activity was illegal or cite the criminal penalties associated with its implementation.

“You’ve got the afternoon to learn it, then.” Kirk was already tapping away at some project of his own. The glow of the screen caught in his hair and his eyes, and Spock spared just a moment to observe him, not really intimidated by the prospect of figuring out municipal coding variants. Kirk seemed utterly absorbed, purely focused in his work, grim with determination. Spock wondered if he ever reduced his intensity or merely masked it under social protocols and charm. He remembered McCoy’s summary of Kirk as a disruptive whirlwind who displaced everything he touched and moved on, oblivious, expecting matters to re-settle into a configuration more to his liking thereafter: reckless, charismatic, subversive. 

The subroutine was quickly written; instead of inputting the identification data Kirk had obtained from the hapless tourists, Spock set it to show that an automatic self-test had triggered instead, harmless and routine. He spent a few minutes simulating its application and tweaked the execution.

“It is complete,” he told Kirk and transferred it, watching as Kirk’s eyes scanned the lines of code, then the testing results. 

“Looks good. Waste of a good ID scrape, though.”

“Their lives do not need to be disrupted for our convenience.”

“Maybe we’ll need their IDs later.” Kirk began to type again, integrating Spock’s code into his own hack. “Why d’you want Bones?”

Spock blinked, surprised by the quicksilver change. “I assume you mean why do I wish to be in a long-term sexual relationship with him.”

“Yeah, that’s what I meant.” Kirk glanced at him sidelong.

“Why do _you_ want him?” Spock determined to let Kirk’s own unknown answers speak for his own motives.

Kirk’s gaze leaped up to meet his, eyes narrowed. “He’s my best friend. My only friend.” His expression remained hard, though, and he did not protest his innocence. “I’m going to do everything in my power to keep him stationed on the Enterprise with me after we get him back.”

“I have no objection to this course. Miss Marcus will not be able to continue her duties as science officer during her delivery and presumably for some time thereafter; I will be agreeable to serving under Captain Pike as her replacement.” Spock let some steel escape into his own voice. “Captain Pike has expressed his desire to work with me over the long term; therefore, I do not foresee appreciable difficulty in achieving my goal.”

“Then I guess we’d better learn to get along.” Kirk made the words bitterly sardonic. 

Spock considered the statement in light of Kirk’s psychological profile. Several avenues suggested themselves as possible means of winning the young man’s friendship and loyalty. However, Spock was certainly not prepared to act in the capacity of a father to him, and Kirk hardly seemed prepared to embrace him in the role of an older brother the way he had accepted McCoy. Spock had no desire to become Kirk’s lover, especially since both their affections were already committed elsewhere. This left the challenging avenue of establishing himself as a respected peer, and the easiest method to achieve that was to become Kirk’s ‘companion in crime.’ This method would fit quite well with the circumstances at hand.

Spock sighed. “Very well.”

Kirk blinked. “What?”

“I am agreeable to the course of action you have suggested.”

“I was being sarcastic.” Kirk rolled his eyes. 

“I was not.” On impulse, Spock strengthened his shields and offered his hand-- not as a sensual gesture, but as a purely human one, indicating peaceful relations and trust between associates. 

Kirk eyed it cautiously, then extended his own. “No telepathic tricks,” he warned.

“I have shielded my telepathic abilities and will not invade your privacy.”

Kirk accepted his hand and shook once with a firm, dry clasp, though he dropped Spock’s hand rather more swiftly than was polite. Spock received only a fleeting impression of intensity and wariness, no more than he had observed without physical contact. In strictly human terms, Kirk’s firm handshake spoke of trustworthiness and confidence. Such physical cues might be deceiving, but Spock believed that within the limited bounds of their mutual desire to retrieve Leonard, Kirk could be trusted.

“We don’t have a realistic idea of what’s hidden here. We can’t, really. We’ll just have to go in blind and trust to luck,” Kirk said. “I mean, the whole state was a hell-pit, back in the day. There could be just about anything. Nevada’s crawling with radioactive waste, decaying chemical warfare agents…. Nobody quite knows where everything was stored or how much it’s decayed. The desert’s so damn hot and desolate, nobody’s ever really cared enough to come in and try to clean it all out.”

Spock nodded; even on Vulcan, certain war-ravaged areas had been… left to themselves. 

“Problem is, military installations like this just don’t dry up. They fester.” Kirk grimaced. 

He didn’t mention Marcus; neither did Spock. Obviously Area 51 had not gone entirely dormant.


	43. Chapter 43

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: there be graphic descriptions of tarantulas and scorpions within. Nobody gets bitten/stung.

They waited until midnight before dressing in the enviro-suits and beaming back to the deserted museum, where Kirk led the way to a supply closet with an electrical access panel. He attached a small electronic code-cracker to the lock behind it, and they waited as it clicked and hummed. Finally the latch popped open, revealing a chute leading down into musty, unpleasant-smelling darkness. Spock reached to feel McCoy’s presence in his mind and found the relative peace of sleep awaiting him. 

Kirk shone a small LED flashlight into the hole, illuminating several black spiders the size of Spock’s hand, their multiple eyes reflecting virulent green. “Tarantulas… they can bite you, and their body hair is an irritant. It’s not very pleasant, but they’re not dangerous,” Kirk said, brushing a few away with his gloves. They scuttled downward, eyes vanishing. The chute was just wide enough to admit a broad-shouldered man, and well-worn steel rungs set in the side led downward into blackness Kirk’s light couldn’t penetrate.

“C’mon.” 

The climb wasn’t as bad as it looked; in a minute or two they dropped from the last rung into a dusty corridor cut into the alkaline limestone rock. Echoes shivered down the length of the corridor, bouncing in a way that suggested an extensive catacomb beneath the desert. Spock glanced at the ancient, rusting support beams, concerned for their stability. Spiders scurried away in every direction, and Kirk stamped a small brown insect, grinding it to a smear under his boot.

“Bark scorpion. They’re a lot nastier than the spiders, so watch out.” He flashed his light in both directions. Spock noted a path of assorted footprints heading roughly southeast; they followed them, stepping quietly to keep noise to a minimum in the echoing tunnel. 

“We’re heading under the airfield,” Kirk murmured. 

Spock nodded, glancing up, glad the landing strips were disused. He would not like to be in these tunnels when a heavy aircraft used the landing area overhead. 

A set of steps diverged from the main progress; curious, Spock caught Kirk’s shoulder and stepped into the side corridor to pursue them.

The structure of the tunnel supports changed and the tunnel abruptly broadened, becoming so large it could accommodate an aircraft, thus prompting him to inspect the ceiling to see how one might be introduced. As he had anticipated, the roof directly overhead featured a set of panels that could be retracted, allowing extremely large items to be lowered into subterranean storage. Torn spider webs and sifted drifts of dust with tractor treadmarks in them indicated recent use. 

“Something has recently been hidden here.” Spock followed the treadmarks, attempting to avoid stepping in dust that would reveal his own footprints. “Possibly something large.”

Kirk lifted his light, revealing a wider expanse that appeared to be a hangar bay. Several antique war planes still sat in their places, the aerodynamic lines of the aircraft sleek and menacing in the faint light.

“The tracks lead to that ship.” It was a boxy, scarred old interstellar cargo transport, built in the days of Earth-to-Mars travel, barely space-worthy. 

“Botany Bay,” Kirk read its name. “Never heard of it.”

“It is a DY-100 class interplanetary transport vehicle,” Spock reported, studying the registry plate. “These footprints are fresh.” He frowned at them; they crossed the tractor tracks. “Someone has been here recently.” The edge of the light revealed the tractor: a wide, flat platform on long low treads, sitting just to one side of the freighter.

Bootprints could be seen threading in and out between the landing gear of the ship, and Spock’s sensitive ears picked up a low thrumming noise. “This craft is not a derelict. It has electrical power and its systems are running.”

Kirk frowned. “Do you think McCoy is aboard?”

Spock stepped forward under the belly of the ship and focused as he paced a slow circle around its landing gear; if Leonard was present, such close proximity would result in a stronger connection. “He is not.”

“Then let’s leave it before someone comes along.” They hastened back out, sidestepping a partial collapse. 

“This place is extremely large.” Spock observed, seeing several branching corridors. “I believe it may extend beyond the perimeter of the fenced area.”

“Yeah. It’s a maze, and it probably goes on for miles.” Kirk pulled to a stop, holding a palm out to stop Spock as well. “Hear anything?”

He was correct. A faint sound pulsed from the next junction of corridors. 

“Music,” Spock said. “From the left.”

They shared a look and turned to the right by mutual agreement, striding down the corridor quickly. 

“‘Ere, who are you?” A sharp voice stopped them, and Spock turned to observe a slender man of ginger coloration wearing Starfleet reds, who had just stepped out of an alcove with a bottle in his hand.

Kirk stepped forward in haste. “We’re here by order of Admiral Marcus to inspect this facility with particular reference to the status of the Botany Bay.”

“What, that bampot?” He crossed his arms, still clinging to the bottle of whiskey. “He doesn’t even know th’ bloody ship’s here!”

Spock noted the accent as Scottish, in keeping with the labeled contents of the bottle. 

“He doesn’t know I’m here, either! Nobody does, except--” The man swallowed, looking warily from one to the other of them. “Except for you... and Harrison.”

Fascinating. 

“Is Harrison here?” Kirk stepped forward, urgent. 

“Nae, not for a fortnight past.”

“Is anyone else in this facility?” Spock queried, intent.

“I don’t think I can tell ye that.” The Scotsman began to sweat, taking a nervous step back. 

“I’m cleared to the highest levels, Lieutenant.” Kirk stepped forward to display his Starfleet credentials.

“Are ye from Starfleet? Then maybe ye’ll get us all out of here before it’s too late!” The Scot’s face brightened and his voice fell. “That Harrison, he’s off his head. Tricked me right out of my station, he did, and brought me here. Now I suppose I’m AWOL. I’m Montgomery Scott, posted to Area 31 R&D.” Absurdly, he stepped forward to offer Kirk his hand. 

“Is anyone else in this facility?” Spock insisted.

“In this quarter? About 72 of the buggers, sleeping the sleep of the dead back in the Botany Bay, but it seems you’d be knowin’ that.” 

The human kept up a constant flow of chatter, padding along swiftly back toward the music. “Harrison said he’d be back tomorrow with the expert help he needs to wake ‘em all. I suppose he’s gone off to London for now to keep the brass happy. Sneakin’ bastard that he is, he works all day over there, then beams himself back here and off to the coast to do his dirty work when he’s meant to be asleep.” 

He led them to the source of the music, where he had assembled a relatively cozy nest, complete with an old-fashioned chalkboard, which he had covered with scribbled diagrams and equations. 

Spock gave the figures a cursory glance, thinking urgent thoughts of London, but then blinked, studying them more closely.

“You are attempting to formulate a theory of trans-warp beaming?”

“Aye,” Scott beamed at him. “I think I’ve got it. All I need is a test subject! The spiders won’t do; I can’t get ‘em to sit still long enough. Not that I can activate the mobile pad, not when Harrison’s not here. It’s encoded to his genetic signature.” He picked it up sadly, wiping dust off its gleaming surface.

Spock raised a brow, still staring at the equation on the board. “I observe you have made an error in applying a constant inside the fifth set of parentheses. It should be a variable.”

“Yer arse and parsley!” Scott surveyed the board, then swore incomprehensibly, snatching up an eraser. 

“This is hardly the time!” Kirk glared at them, but Spock received the distinct impression he was smothering a laugh. “We’ve got to decide on our strategy.”

“We should get th’ fook out ‘n come back with an army,” Scott said. “The three of us’ll never take Harrison. He’s a genetic augment of some sort. A right bastard.”

“If we remain, we may be able to retrieve Leonard when they arrive.”

“Yer not retrieving anything, not without a lot more armament than ye have.” Scott shook his head. “A phaser stun doesn’t even get his attention. I’ve seen th’ bastard take out a squad hand to hand. And I don’t mean he left the lads unconscious, either. I mean he left the bodies out in the desert for the coyotes, after. If he catches the two of you here, he’ll hold us all hostage and make ye do as he likes. He means to thaw those cryo-tubes so there’ll be 72 of the mad buggers to help him hold all our balls in the fire!”

“If we go, he may return while we are away and have the doctor accomplish his purpose.” Spock glanced toward Kirk. “Can we call for backup?”

“Not here. I’ve got no signal.” Kirk held up his silent communicator. 

“He’s got the whole base locked down so you can’t comm out.” Scott slumped at his desk and put his feet up, glaring at the chalkboard with wild surmise.

Kirk scowled. “If he’s going to make Bones a hostage, then we’ll take his people hostage first.”

Scott stopped scowling at his equations, blinking at them both. “Ye think? Can ye tell me how ta get out before ye do?”

“Nope. We’re gonna need all the help we can get.” Kirk grinned suddenly, white teeth shining. “I saw warheads on some of those jets back in the hangar bay. You’re gonna help us figure out how to launch them. Can we?”

Scott gave him a wild-eyed stare, then nodded helplessly. “I suppose. I’ll have ta have a look.” He glowered at Spock as he led the way off down the corridor. “Why do you say that constant’s an error?”

“The momentum of the system inside the warp bubble cannot remain constant.”

“It has to,” Scott protested. “It’s not affected by external forces.”

“Then perhaps you should posit that it is not the transwarp transport bubble that moves, but the universe that moves around it. Otherwise you have an inconsistency that will dislocate the calculated arrival point.”

Scott blinked at him, his eyes lighting up like a sunrise. “Bloody brilliant, that is!” He started to turn back to go to his equations, then grimaced. “Right, right, it’ll keep ‘til later.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _bampot:_ idiot, unhinged person


	44. Chapter 44

The Botany Bay was stuffed from stem to stern with cryotubes, all plugged into a nuclear battery, the source of the humming sound Spock had noted previously. Spock tentatively dated the ship and technology to the early days of spaceflight, shortly before the 21st century. All the occupants were Terran, most appearing to derive from far eastern ancestry. 72 occupants survived, though Spock judged it astonishing that any of the 85 pods had remained functional. The ship itself was remarkably well-preserved also. Though it had been designed for interplanetary service, it showed signs of lengthy interstellar travel in its pitted and pockmarked hull. 

Spock anticipated that Leonard would be able to revive the sleepers with relative ease. He would probably complain that more extensive medical facilities were not available, but given that Harrison himself had survived the thawing process, the endeavor seemed likely to prove successful.

He emerged to find Kirk and Scott arguing over the armaments on a fighter jet, having used a winch aboard the tractor to maneuver one in its slot so that the missiles pointed directly toward the Botany Bay.

“Those are high-powered missiles, possibly armed with nuclear warheads!” Scott gesticulated wildly. “If you fire one of those in this enclosed space, you’ll blow the whole base higher than hell! You won’t just kill Harrison’s people-- you’ll vaporize Harrison, that doctor, and yourself into the bargain, as well as the Vulcan and me and anyone within a fifty kilometer radius, if we’re actually stupid enough to stick around long enough for you to do it!”

“Then I’ll save ‘em for a last resort.”

Spock raised a brow. “It might be possible to disarm the nuclear warhead and replace it with a conventional device.”

“Even one of those might fill this whole hangar with a fireball.” Scott shook his head. “We’ll be incinerated.”

“Then we’ll get a small one.”

It took a lot of wrangling, but they eventually maneuvered a new jet around to face the Botany Bay, one armed with small anti-aircraft weapons. 

“Harrison will be aware immediately that the hangar has been disturbed,” Spock said, looking at the fresh treadmarks and boot-prints all over the floor. He picked up a length of steel dislodged and fallen from some unknown machine; it fit well in his hand and would serve as a weapon at need. He did not wish to fire his phaser randomly in a room where atomic weapons might be waiting unseen at the end of a phaser bolt’s trajectory.

Scott just grunted; he was busy fiddling with the mobile transporter pad-- probably already incorporating Spock’s suggestion into his equations. 

“Then we’ll move before he can react.” Kirk tilted his wrist to check his chrono. “It’ll be dawn soon. We’d better take our positions. I want you behind him; keep him in here.” He gave Spock’s shoulder a friendly slap. Spock resisted the impulse to blink at Kirk’s hand, mildly startled by the gesture. 

Instead he nodded, accepting the plan. If he could, he would approach Harrison unawares and incapacitate him, then take Leonard to safety. Perhaps there would be no need to detonate the missiles.

“Mr. Scott, you get in the bird with the nukes and stand by. Don’t let ‘em off unless you have to.” Kirk winked at him, and Scott rolled his eyes to heaven. 

“Who the hell are you, anyway? What’s your rank?” he demanded, suddenly suspicious.

Kirk grinned at him, wolfish. “James T. Kirk. I’m the only Starfleet command cadet who ever beat the Kobayashi Maru. Isn’t that right, Commander Spock?” He trotted lightly over and scrambled up into his jet, giving Spock a wink.

“Isn’t he just a bonnie mad bastard,” Scott muttered.

“At least 66 percent of your estimate is accurate.” Spock kept his tone absolutely dry. 

“I’ve formulated a revised equation,” Scott said, apropos of nothing. “Have a look?”

Spock gazed at the panel of the device, where the original equation had transformed to an elegant set of calculations that made him blink, impressed. He stared for a few minutes, unable to find a flaw. “That seems far more promising.” 

“Now I need ta test it.” Scott glared down at the pad, fingers dancing on the controls. “I could send someone all the way to Qo’noS, if I wanted, just like so. If I could just-- drat!”

He glanced up, wild-eyed. “Harrison’s priming a beam-in.”

“Proceed to your assigned place.”

Spock withdrew into the shadows as Scott scrambled up into the jet and pulled down the canopy. He settled just in time; materialization was well in process. 

Two forms appeared, and the connection in Spock’s mind pulsed with sudden intensity.

Spock’s heart beat faster, his fingers tingling. Leonard appeared, hooded, wrists snubbed together brutally behind the small of his back-- his mouth gagged as well, if the sounds were anything to go by. His presence exploded into Spock’s mind, a maelstrom of fury. 

Harrison shoved him off the pad, making him stumble, and Spock glided forward, absolutely noiseless, debating between his steel bar and a nerve pinch. But the man had the right to a fair trial. Harrison paused to survey the new tracks on the floor and Spock reached forward, closing his fingers on the man’s shoulder in the _to’tsu’k’hy_ \--

To no effect.

Harrison snarled in pain and whirled, swinging; Spock countered the punch with the steel bar, expecting the man’s arm to crumple.

It did not. 

Leonard sagged to his knees, disoriented, his mind a bright whirl of confusion and dawning hope, but Spock had no time to soothe him. He swung again, this time targeting Harrison’s head, but the man ducked and nearly kicked his ankles out from beneath him. 

“Harrison!” Kirk’s voice rang out, strong and confident. “I’ve got you covered with four Sidewinder missiles. Rest assured, I will fucking blow you and your popsicle friends straight to hell if you don’t back off right now and put your hands in the air.”

“You will not, or you will kill your companion.” 

“Believe me, I don’t give a rat’s ass for that guy.” Kirk’s voice never faltered. 

“You will kill the doctor as well. He is well within the blast radius.” Harrison sounded supremely indifferent; he took a smooth step closer to McCoy. Spock’s fist clenched: an impasse. He edged forward, fist tightening around his steel bar.

“You think I care about him?” Kirk laughed. “You’ve got another think coming. I’m not here to rescue the poster-boy for peace. I’m here because Alexander Marcus urgently wants to talk to you regarding the abduction of Lieutenant Montgomery Scott. He wants to talk… but I’m sure he’d be satisfied if I haul you home trussed up and baked like a roast turkey.”

Spock watched Harrison haul McCoy to his feet, edging another step closer to them.

“Stay back, Vulcan, or I will snap his neck.” Harrison remained calm, his elbow settled firmly around McCoy’s throat. “And you, at least, care for him.”

Spock could feel the turmoil of McCoy’s mind suddenly settle, icily calm; the doctor’s foot shifted, hooking around Harrison’s ankle, and he jerked savagely, toppling them both. 

They landed in a tangle atop the transporter pad, which activated. Harrison swore, then snatched it in both hands-- and impossibly it vanished with them, the whirl of beaming singing into silence.

Scott exploded from the cockpit of his fighter. “It worked! It worked! ...I think.” He gave Spock a nervous glance. “I, er, I’m not sure, actually. I never saw anyone take a mobile pad with them like that before. And of course, that was the new transwarp equation, so--”

Spock immediately reached deep inside his mind to seek for McCoy, but met only with a flare of agony, then silence. Perhaps he survived, and Harrison had struck him unconscious. Perhaps he had not survived rematerialization. If that was so… they did not dare ask Scott to alter another transporter and attempt the transwarp beaming process.

“Where did they go?” Spock interrupted as he dropped the bar, advancing on Scott, barely aware of Kirk emerging from his own cockpit and leaping to the floor. 

“I, uh.” Scotty edged sideways, toward Kirk. “I input a set of beam-out coordinates to sim-test the equation just because I knew them off the top of my head, you understand, as a destination compatible with human physiology. A Class M planet. Not because I intended anyone to actually--”

“Where did they go?” Spock heard his voice turn silky with menace. 

Scott swallowed, his adam’s apple bobbing. “Qo’noS, sir. The Klingon homeworld.”

“What the hell was that, Spock?” Kirk arrived yelling, furious exasperation all over his face. “You’ve got a fucking steel bar in your hand and you go with some hokey Vulcan mystical bullshit instead?”

“I believed it would work. Harrison had the right to a fair trial.”

“God, what’d you even _do_? It sure didn’t faze him. You may as well have given him a kiss--”

Spock reached out and applied the pinch to Kirk, who crumpled instantly. 

“Come along, Mr. Scott.” Spock hooked a fist into the back of Kirk’s collar and began to drag him toward the exit. “Lingering here serves no useful purpose.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _to’tsu’k’hy_ : Vulcan nerve pinch
> 
> Now that I've cliffhangered this thing again, I'm going to take a few days off from posting for Christmas.... *flees, pelted with complaints and rotten vegetables*
> 
> Seriously, I'm at a huge plot nexus and I have to decide where it's going before I can move on. The next section might require revision based on my decisions, so I'm hesitant to publish it yet. So while you're waiting, I'll be feverishly trying to resolve the Gordian knot of plot I've got myself tangled up in and get some more backlog written so I'll still have a comfortable pad for backward revision purposes!


	45. Chapter 45

Kirk revived by the time they reached the outward chute. He got to his feet, cursing and rubbing his neck. “What the hell did you think you were doing?”

“Demonstrating the practical efficacy of a combat move that has never failed me before tonight.” Spock lifted Scott until he managed to hook a boot over a rung so he could climb, then hoisted Kirk up. “Get clear of the jamming effect and contact Captain Pike so that he may remove the cryogenically frozen individuals from this facility before Harrison can return for them.” He turned back.

“Aren’t you coming?”

“I will remain to guard the Botany Bay until help arrives. Should Harrison return for his crew before the Enterprise can respond, I will prevent him from taking them.”

Spock’s vigil proved in vain; he theorized the long-distance transport had temporarily drained the pad’s power cell, preventing Harrison from making a speedy return. Or perhaps Harrison merely anticipated that his people would now be guarded and judged the attempt not worth the risk. 

Pike himself beamed down with Dr. Puri, various medical staff, and a dozen security men in tow. 

“Spock,” he said. “I was sorry to hear your rescue attempt failed.” He scowled around the hangar, directing the beam of his emergency light at the ragged collection of ships. “What the hell is this place?”

“An abandoned twentieth-century military base. I am unsure of its current purpose or contents, but they would bear investigating.” Spock inclined his head. “Your swift response to Cadet Kirk’s request is appreciated. Shall I report on our attempt?”

“Yes, please. Lieutenant Jeffers, please remain here and contact me immediately if there’s any unexpected activity.” Pike followed Spock aboard the Botany Bay, where Puri and his staff immediately began investigating the cryo-tubes.

“Good news, Captain. There’s an independent back-up power source for every tube. We can carry them out and beam them up right away,” Puri said. Pike knelt to examine the nearest tube, which held a young man with a tattoo in a Hindu style upon his face. “Or we could try thawing that fellow out and asking him some questions. His chances of survival seem good.”

Pike hesitated for a moment, then shook his head. “If they’re all as dangerous as Harrison… no, we’ll want to keep them contained until further notice. I’ll call down some muscle to help you move the tubes.” Pike flipped his comm open and issued the order, then gave attention to Spock’s report.

“Immune to your Vulcan nerve pinch? Sounds like a case of bad luck to me.” He shook his head, frowning. 

“Harrison also deflected a metal bar with his forearm, yet seemed to suffer no significant injury.” 

Pike clicked his tongue, impressed. “I wonder if all these people are augments. I wonder what they can do. If it’s the same stuff, or if they’re all different.”

“I do not have sufficient information to speculate.” Once again Spock felt his calm eroding as the delay in pursuing McCoy stretched out, seeming infinite. To have had Leonard so close at hand, then lost him again… it was intolerable.

“The engineer Kirk and I found imprisoned here had altered a transporter pad. He believes it capable of transwarp beaming, and set the coordinates for Qo’noS. In the course of the scuffle, it activated and beam-out was achieved. I do not know if rematerialization was successful.” 

“Transwarp beaming? Really?” Pike scowled. “I want a word with that engineer. He sounds useful.” Men began to file past, pushing antigrav carts loaded with cryo-tubes. “And dangerous if left in the wrong hands.”

“Indeed. It is my opinion the Enterprise stands to benefit exceptionally from retaining the services of Lieutenant Scott, if he may be adequately supervised. However, there is a matter of his prior assignment to Area 31, from which he is absent without official leave.” 

“Well, since Area 31 doesn’t officially exist, I’m sure I can come up with an acceptable justification for his reassignment.” Pike drawled and gave Spock a sly wink. “Must’ve been a mixup with his data file. He’s been assigned aboard the Enterprise all along.” Pike hesitated. “What do you mean to do, Spock?”

“The Enterprise cannot go to Qo’noS,” Spock acknowledged. “That much is clear. I propose to obtain a ship and pursue Harrison myself, to discover whether he and Leonard McCoy survived the transwarp beaming attempt.”

“Take Kirk with you, if he’ll go.” Pike kept his voice low, his eyes fixing Spock with steady shrewdness. The last of the cryo-tubes trundled past, leaving the Botany Bay empty and silent.

“Captain.” Spock hesitated, unsure of the protocol of his inquiry, and ensured they were alone before speaking. “I must inquire regarding Cadet Kirk’s allegiance. Is he a covert operative of yours, or does his loyalty belong to Admiral Marcus?”

“Yes,” Pike answered, refusing to elaborate. “Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies.” He patted Spock’s shoulder. “Just watch yourself. That boy’s reckless no matter whose side he’s on. Now let’s beam up.”

Spock was surprised to find Kirk’s bike and their gear parked to the side of the platform in the transporter room, with Kirk himself lounging against the wall, insolent, like he owned the place. 

“We’ve got to get a ship and go after them,” Kirk said without prelude as soon as Pike left them. “Any ideas?”

Spock lifted his chin. “I believe Ambassador Sarek will allow us to take his personal cruiser, the T’Pel.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“We will take the T’Pel despite his wishes.”

“Hang onto that thought and keep your hands to yourself, and I might actually learn to like you.” Kirk raised a brow, obviously attempting to mock him, and grinned.

Spock merely stalked past Kirk and sought privacy to comm his father. 

*****

“Ambassador.” He sat up straight, quite correct. “I must inform you of the partial failure of the project upon which I had embarked. However, I have discovered a new and promising line of inquiry into its solution. In order to pursue it, I require a ship. I ask the loan of the T’Pel.” 

Sarek tilted his head at Spock’s discreet summary, steepling his fingers together as he considered. “The matter is an important one,” he said. “Your request is warranted.”

“Then I may take her.”

“The possibility you might use the ship in an illegal fashion precludes a response to your query.” Sarek folded his hands. “I trust you comprehend.”

Indeed; Sarek wished to retain deniability. But he had not said no. “Where is the T’Pel at present?”

“I have docked her at the Vulcan Embassy in San Francisco, near where we disembarked from our recent journey.”

“Noted.” Spock inclined his head. “I will report on the status of my project as I may.” He hesitated. “Live long and prosper, father.”

“Peace and long life, Spock.” Sarek terminated the conversation. 

Spock arose. It would take several days to reach Qo’noS. By then Harrison was sure to have discovered the removal of his people; he would no longer require the immediate services of a doctor. Haste was of utmost importance. “Computer, locate Cadet James Kirk.”

“James Kirk is in transporter room 3.” 

Spock supplied himself swiftly and went to join Kirk, finding him speaking with Pike, who raised his head and stood back as Spock approached. “Mr. Spock. I trust your arrangements are in order.” He went to operate the transporter himself.

“Yes. Beam us down adjacent to the Vulcan Embassy in San Francisco, please.”

“You’ve got it.” Pike set the panel, his forehead furrowed with a concern that belied his calm words. “Clear skies, gentlemen.”

“Thank you, captain.” They spoke in unison and dematerialized, glowering at one another.


	46. Chapter 46

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rest in Peace, Carrie Fisher-- everything T'Rileh is in this story, she owes in large part to you, because you were my only kick-ass female role model growing up. You were loved and will be deeply missed.

Spock was surprised to find the T’Pel under guard-- but less so when he recognized T’Rileh as her guardian.

“Good afternoon, Commander Spock,” she said, yielding the way; the hatch responded to Spock’s palmprint and the three of them filed inside. “Ambassador Sarek has ordered me to remain with the ship to ensure its safety. While I am sure he anticipates that it and I will remain here, I believe I may ensure its safety from other locations with equal efficiency.” She raised a brow at Spock, who sighed and yielded to the inevitable, preceding her aboard. 

Spock filed for permission to depart the solar system using Sarek’s credentials and received unqualified approval. As soon as possible he pushed the ship to warp 8, setting the automatic pilot to maintain the ship’s course and notify him of any trouble. 

Spock turned to Kirk. “There are two sets of quarters to be had, one on either side of the main corridor. T’Rileh will require one. We will take my father’s on the left, which is slightly larger.” 

“Works for me.” Kirk lounged in the copilot’s seat, looking out at the warp bubble, not seeming to care that he and Spock had to share quarters. “Nice little ship. Pretty sleek.”

“She should have adequate speed and armament to suit our needs.” Spock finished issuing instructions to the computer. “She is armed with the most advanced phasers known to Vulcan science and has several photonic torpedoes capable of antimatter reaction for use in extreme emergencies.” 

Kirk drummed his fingertips on an innocuous piece of instrument panel, but he did not seem to be paying proper attention. “Spock, when we reach Qo’noS, assuming we find them alive, you need to stop being so anal about regulations and fair trials. It’s Bones’s life we’re talking about, and this isn’t a Starfleet operation anymore. This is a private vendetta being carried out on a private ship. We get within range of Harrison again? We take him out with extreme prejudice.”

Spock considered, resisting the impulse to balk at Kirk’s insult. “I believe you are correct,” he acknowledged with reluctance, then caught T’Rileh’s eye. “We will act to dispatch Harrison at our earliest opportunity.”

She nodded sharply. “Yes, sir.”

Spock took his things and went into his father’s cabin after setting the instrumentation, intending to stow any of Sarek’s personal effects, only to find there were none in evidence. The bunk was utilitarian and narrow; though he and Leonard had managed to share a single bed as they traveled from Vulcan to Earth, in current company it was out of the question. Either he or Kirk would have to sleep on the floor. 

Kirk came to the door, surveying the quarters and lifting a brow at him. “Flip you for it.”

“I will not fight you for the bed. The floor will be adequate for my needs.” Qo’noS was not so distant that the floor would become intolerable before arrival.

“No, I meant…” Kirk sighed. “Never mind. We should trade out.” He eyed Spock for a moment. “This is your ship; I expected you to say it was your bed.”

“It is not logical for a host to mistreat a guest. I will take the floor.”

That made Kirk blink. “I could try to get the woman, the guard, to share with me.”

“T’Rileh would not be any more agreeable to your sharing a bed with her than Miss Marcus would approve of it.”

Kirk sighed. “Point.” He dropped his pack by the door, arranging it next to Spock’s own. “Bones knew we were there.”

“He did, yes.” Spock had never spoken, but he had touched his mate’s mind when they materialized. Leonard had meant to make Harrison vulnerable to his attack by tripping the man. It would have worked, if not for the transporter pad. 

“He’ll know we’re coming to rescue him. He’ll keep himself alive.”

It was Spock’s turn to blink; Kirk was attempting to… provide _comfort_. 

“He will attempt to do so, yes.” He kept his tone neutral. “However, he is not conscious. He may already be dead.”

“If they survived the beaming process, he’s alive. Harrison still needs him.” Kirk sat down on the edge of the bunk, his eyes remote; Spock realized he was calculating probabilities, running through scenarios in his mind. “He won’t give up on retrieving his people so easily.”

“Perhaps we can use the frozen crew as leverage against Harrison.”

“That’s our best bet,” Kirk agreed. “He’ll have to come off Qo’noS to get them, and he’ll need Bones to thaw them out.” His eyes hardened. 

Spock reached out, seeking some faint sense of McCoy, but again found nothing. A haze of wrath passed across his eyes, and he banished it with an effort. “I cannot determine whether Leonard is alive at this time.”

Kirk nodded, unaware of Spock’s vengeful emotion. “I’ve never approved of all that telepathic Vulcan voodoo, but for Bones I’ll make an exception. Tell me if you get any sense of him.” He stood up and pulled the thick coverlet off the bunk, handing it over to Spock. “It was a long night. Let’s get some rest. Tomorrow night I get the floor.”

Spock decided the suggestion was logical and wrapped himself in the coverlet, curling up on the floor and closing his eyes. 

“Spock…?” Kirk propped himself on his elbow, and Spock opened his eyes to find him looking down, a strangely vulnerable expression on his face. “I shouldn’t have said what I did before. It wasn’t your fault we botched the rescue. That attack would’ve worked on a normal person.”

Spock closed his eyes again. “You are attempting to soothe my wounded feelings, cadet.” He spoke dispassionately. “You proceed from an erroneous assumption. I have no feelings to wound.” 

“Bullshit,” Kirk snapped. “I saw your face when--” mercifully he gave up without finishing, subsiding with an annoyed grunt.

Sleep did not come easily to either of them.


	47. Chapter 47

Qo’noS hung in space, gleaming like a jeweled cabochon of emerald in matrix, the soft blue halo of its atmosphere catching the light, the terminator a severe arc cut across its surface. Praxis hung against the darkened segment of the disc, a tiny echo of the larger shape, breathtaking in its beauty.

The effect was largely lost on Spock as he engaged the T’Pel’s shields and broadcast a false registry indicating she was a mining shuttle, bringing her in hot from warp and settling rapidly in the polar region of Praxis, hoping against hope to avoid undue interest. Small as she was, nestled beneath the overhanging lip of a crater with all systems dormant, she would be hard to find against the ore-rich background of the Klingon moon. Perhaps that, together with the deceptive registry, would suffice to thwart pursuit.

T’Rileh reluctantly agreed to stay on the T’Pel and operate the transporter to beam them back aboard. She watched intently as Spock reproduced the coordinates he had seen on Scott’s device.

He was also aware of Kirk watching him with a speculative look, and realized he was striking the keys with nearly enough force to damage the metal. 

“These coordinates are in the Ketha Province. Records indicate it is all but uninhabited, composed primarily of farmland. However, my scans indicate the area surrounding our beam-down site has also been utilized for storage of scrap, including a variety of hazardous materials.” Spock finished entering the coordinates and positioned himself on the pad. “As the coordinates were chosen by Mr. Scott, there should have been possibly little strategic advantage for Harrison in the location itself. However, he has had several days to choose and fortify his position.” Several days in which Spock had felt no flicker of McCoy’s mind. He gritted his teeth and checked the phaser in his belt. “I have scanned the coordinates and they should be suitable for safe materialization.” 

“Then let’s get a move on.” Kirk stepped lazily up beside him, seeming as relaxed as Spock was tense. He palmed his phaser loosely, re-strapping his glove to his wrist. 

Spock also drew his weapon, holding it at the ready, and nodded to T’Rileh. “Energize.”

They materialized in darkness, grit and dust swirling around them, kicked up by a biting wind. The looming shapes of junked spacecraft jutted into the air around them, fading away into the darkness as the beam-in ended, still eclipsing the paler black of the sky. Heaps and mounds of various metallic junk gleamed faintly under the starlight: the place was quite literally a dump.

Spock blinked, encouraging his eyes to adapt to the darkness, and tried to listen for any telltale sounds warning of danger, but the wind was too strong; all he could hear was its susurration and the rhythmic creaking and groaning of various loose bits of metal as they scraped against one another.

Kirk took out his tricorder, shielding the screen as he scanned. “Numerous life-form readings. Looks like this is a shelter area for indigents.” He shut the cap over the display screen. “Try to be quiet, willya?”

Spock bristled; in fact, he was quieter than Kirk himself as they set out, for he could see better in the darkness. He pressed forward, taking the lead, stretching his senses for some hint of McCoy. There had been no sign of carnage at the beam-down coordinates, duplicated from Scott’s selection, and from that Spock took hope. Perhaps Harrison and Leonard had survived and Harrison was merely keeping McCoy sedated until he was needed.

“We’ve got a welcoming committee heading our way,” Kirk warned. 

“Remain behind me while I attempt to parley,” Spock directed. “I believe Klingons hate Vulcans slightly less than Terrans.”

“That’s not very reassuring.”

The leader of the Klingon band stepped out of the shadows, a grumbling band of followers in his wake, and Spock took stock of him warily. He was apparently a radical proponent of hypermasculine ornamentation, wearing numerous pieces of metal piercing his flesh. He displayed unusual levels of ornamentation even for this warlike race, with steel hoops threaded through the ridges of his forehead and through both ears. He had shaved the majority of his hair and snarled through sharpened teeth that would have intimidated a Ferengi. 

_“nuqneH?”_ The inquiry rumbled dangerously and the men mumbled an echo behind their leader, drawing blades with an ominous scrape. 

“We have come to seek a traitor, an honorless man who has betrayed his vows.” Spock spoke calmly, hoping the Klingon spoke Standard.

 _“naDevvo’ peghoS,”_ the leader cleared his throat with a horrible choking sound and spat through his teeth, the stream striking Spock’s boot. 

“That means 'fuck off,'” Kirk translated not at all helpfully.

“I am aware.” Spock eyed the leader warily. “This man we seek is dangerous--”

“Don’t _say_ that,” Kirk groaned softly. “Don’t you even know how not to insult a Klingon?”

“--to my kind and I have sworn an oath of honor to avenge the injury he has done to my mate.”

The Klingon merely laughed in Spock’s face, raising his hand and flicking his fingers forward, signaling his followers.

The howling horde advanced, blades flashing; a phaser bolt struck the shoulder of Spock’s tunic as he took an evasive leap to avoid the leader’s knife: a superficial wound. Lost in the adrenaline of battle, he did not feel the searing pain of it.

Kirk fired back, but it only maddened the Klingon mob, who pushed forward, roaring. Spock tripped one, disarmed another, and snapped a third one’s neck before they were on him. A club landed on his shoulder, turning his left arm numb; he caught it with his right hand and flung the alien away, taking down two who had advanced behind him.

Kirk yelled something unintelligible over the loud whine of another phaser bolt striking nearby-- that was heavy rifle fire, not a hand-phaser. Spock glanced up as a man in rocket boots jetted past overhead, firing sharply into the melee. Spock surged to his feet, kicking a warrior off Kirk before the Klingon could sink his blade, and caught the leader’s wrist when he slashed furiously at Spock. 

Klingon curses and dying screams greeted the shots, and flares of fiery light spoiled Spock’s night vision, but he no longer needed it as the pulses strobed; he had come to grips with his enemy. 

The Klingon chieftain caught him, savagely strong, his wrist strengthened by a metal bracer. They grappled, the Klingon’s teeth snapping millimeters from Spock’s neck as he struggled to break the man’s arm, but the Klingon’s weight shoved forward, pushing him over. They toppled, a flash of light blinding Spock, but when they struck the ground, the chieftain was dead weight, his eyes rolling back, the nauseating scent of burned flesh and blood overpowering Spock’s nostrils. 

The chieftain sported a gaping, cauterized hole in his back, visible when Spock shoved him away. No one remained stirring on the battlefield except he and Kirk, who was gingerly wiping blood from a split lip. Their rescuer slowly settled to the ground a few meters away, reaching for the hood and mask that veiled his face.

“Harrison.” Spock hissed the word as the man drew the cloth away and removed the metal plating, revealing his smooth brown skin and dark eyes. He glared hatred at Spock over his smiling mouth and white teeth. Several phaser bolts had struck him, leaving smoking black patches in his clothing, but the strikes seemed not to have damaged him at all. Body armor, perhaps? Or perhaps phasers simply did not affect a being of Harrison’s unusual genetic structure.

“I have something you want. You have something I want,” Harrison said lightly, lips curving in a contemptuous smile. “We should strike a bargain swiftly before more Klingons are drawn by the noise of battle.”

“We don’t have your crew with us.” Kirk stepped forward. “You were holding a Starfleet officer prisoner down there; he pushed the panic button and called in Captain Pike before I could stop him. Pike took custody of your crew. What the hell was Lieutenant Scott doing there, Harrison? That wasn’t part of the damn deal you struck with Alexander.”

Spock stiffened but remained silent. His hand shifted, settling over his phaser, and his mind began to spin, calculating probabilities.

“I put Lieutenant Scott to far better use than Section 31 ever did.” Harrison holstered his weapon. “Why did you bring the Vulcan?”

“He had a ship,” Kirk drawled. Spock had no time to react as Kirk brought a phaser up. This time the corona of light caught Spock square on; he was gone before the ground ever caught him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _nuqneH?_ : What do you want  
>  _naDevvo’ peghoS_ : Go away


	48. Chapter 48

“Spock!” Hands shook him; he stiffened, trying to control spasming muscles. _T’Rileh._ He forced his eyes open, discovering he lay aboard the T’Pel.

“Where are we?” Spock clenched his jaw, forcing the words between gritted teeth.

“We are still on Praxis.” She peeled back one of his lids to check his pupillary response, and he allowed it. “You did not answer your comm and your signal did not move. I believed you dead when you materialized, but am gratified you were only stunned.”

“Kirk is in league with Harrison. I believe both are working as covert operatives for Admiral Marcus.” Spock’s fist clenched so tightly that his nails cut his palm. “Beam them aboard at once.”

“I cannot. Kirk’s comm was adjacent to yours; I retrieved it in the beam-out. There was no other sign of him.”

Spock forced himself to sit up. His mouth tasted of blood and ash. “Help me to the bridge. I must send an encrypted message to Captain Pike.”

He did not dare risk a visual while within restricted space. He settled for a short burst of text relating salient details, then terminated the signal. “Prepare for departure,” he told T’Rileh.

“Without McCoy?”

“We can no longer trust we will remain undetected. Setting course for the other side of the neutral zone.” He picked the nearest coordinates of Federation Space and programmed the drive computer. 

“While you were planetside, I scanned for the Vulcaya pendant your bondmate wears,” T’Rileh said. “I found a reading at these coordinates.” 

Spock paused, his hand poised over the throttle. “Show me the scans.” 

T’Rileh punched up the results as Spock bent over the panel. “The signature of the Vulcaya is distinct, yes, yet life signs in its vicinity are indeterminate.” He frowned. Something about the reading troubled him. He re-focused the scanner, attempting to fine-tune it to penetrate localized interference. “Something at that spot is alive,” he murmured. “But the readings are not strong enough to indicate--” he fell silent, wondering suddenly. Why had Scott known the precise coordinates for this place on Qo’noS? He should have lingered to question the engineer more comprehensively.

“Beam me as close as possible to the pendant’s location,” he decided abruptly. “Give me five minutes. If I do not contact you before that time elapses, depart at once and rendezvous with Pike and the Enterprise.” 

“I will.” 

Too much interference existed for a direct beam-in adjacent to the pendant; the coordinates were apparently buried some meters below the surface of Qo’noS and the sensors could not accurately select a safe materialization site. Spock materialized on the surface in a sheltered location: a cave mouth, the stirred dust showing prints of at least two booted feet, perhaps as many as ten.

Spock advanced cautiously, debating the wisdom of leaving his own prints distinct from the others should he turn aside to seek concealment-- but he had little time to spare, so he settled for following the existing prints deeper into the heart of Qo’noS, listening intently for sounds of occupation.

The installation was primitive at best-- a farmer’s storehouse conveniently set within a natural cavern, meant for sheltering animals or perhaps newly-harvested grain. 

The clock was counting, inexorable. Spock hastened his progress, his tricorder showing the Vulcaya signature very clearly. Yet he could hear no sound of a heartbeat, only the almost infinitesimal hum of working electronics.

He rounded a final corner, and there it lay, leaned inside a rough-cut niche: a single working cryo-tube, its occupant still, features all but hidden behind a haze of frost.

Leonard. Spock forced down the surge of violent emotion as his heart sped. The tube must be Harrison’s own, taken from the Botany Bay when he was defrosted, perhaps, and brought here at some unknown later time, now put to use housing Harrison’s prisoner.

Spock hesitated, his hand hovering over the control panel. Could he revive Leonard with any guarantee of safety or even of survival? He did not believe so.

“T’Rileh,” he spoke into his comm. “Lock onto my signal.” 

No response. 

He still had a minute and a half remaining; his signal should be strong enough for her to pick up and respond, but he received no answer to a second or even a third hail.

The cryo-tube was manageable in weight and bulk; he could lift it, but only just; he could not carry it at speed. His time would expire before he could return to the surface with it. 

Spock passed a trembling hand over the faceplate. Logic dictated he leave Leonard and ensure their means of escape remained available a little longer.

He hastened out, hailing T’Rileh as he reached the mouth of the tunnel-- but again, no answer came. Spock gazed out of the cave mouth, squinting against the light, and spied movement on the plain beyond: Harrison and Kirk approaching at a trot, illuminated by the growing light of dawn.

He withdrew into the shadows, his hand straying instinctively to clasp his phaser. At this distance, he might pick them off-- but phaser fire did not seem to affect Harrison, and shooting Kirk would alert Harrison to Spock’s presence. If the element of surprise failed Spock again, perhaps Harrison could be maneuvered or tricked into releasing McCoy.

Perhaps this was Kirk’s goal. Eliminating Spock would, after all, be a powerful tactic in persuading Harrison Kirk was fully allied with Marcus. Or Kirk might truly have gone rogue, working for himself rather than for a single side.

“Your friend is safe,” Harrison spoke to Kirk, that mocking lilt still audible in his voice. “And he awaits my convenience in the best accommodation I have.” He led Kirk through the cavern toward the niche. “Quite safe… provided, of course, one knows how to defrost a cryogenic storage pod successfully. Do I have this knowledge, you may ask? In theory. In theory, but I did not care to test mere theories on my own personnel. I had hoped he would assist in their revival. How ironic that he cannot supervise his own.”

Spock stiffened, daring to lean far enough from concealment to watch as Kirk passed his own hand across the faceplate of the cryogenic tube. Whatever game the man might be playing, he seemed powerfully affected by the sight of McCoy transfixed in helpless hibernation. 

“Have you put your plans into place on Praxis?” Kirk turned away from McCoy, his tone steely and calm. “That was your purpose in coming to Qo’noS, was it not?”

“I have already detonated the explosive device,” Harrison smirked, very faint. “I trust Admiral Marcus will be satisfied.”

“Then the shockwave will arrive soon,” Kirk said. “And there will be a great deal of meteoritic debris. Are we far enough below the surface to remain unaffected?”

“I waited precisely until moonset. The body of Qo’noS now lies between us and the wavefront of the blast. We will have a solar day before coming within range of meteor-fall activity. There is no guarantee of safety after that time here, or anywhere on this world. Some of the fragments will be many kilometers in diameter, and may penetrate the crust, allowing volcanic eruption directly from the mantle.”

Spock’s mind raced. An explosion on Praxis might have sufficed to prevent T’Rileh’s response. Depending on its location and severity, it might even have destroyed the T’Pel. An explosion of sufficient size would put an end to the military mining operations there; one sufficient to fragment the moon would create irreversible environmental damage on Qo’noS, ultimately rendering the planet uninhabitable. Spock had little doubt of Harrison’s intent. Logically, Marcus would have sought the Klingons’ destruction.

As a military act, the destruction of Praxis would be-- was-- a masterstroke of malevolent genius, rendering the Klingons desperate enough to attack their rivals at any cost, yet weakening them beyond repair. Ultimately this disaster represented a threat to their very racial identity, for the entire surviving population of Qo’noS would be fragmented and driven into space when the homeworld became uninhabitable. It would take perhaps fifty Terran years to transpire, at most.

James Kirk was now complicit in an act of terrorism that threatened an entire sentient race. 

“The Federation will contact the Klingon High Council,” Kirk said. “Doubtless with an offer of humanitarian aid. We will assist them, of course… but not without requiring them to agree to certain terms. Thanks to you and Alexander, we have the means to enforce those terms.”

“Matters would have transpired thus without your interference,” Harrison hissed. “Why have you come?”

“To ensure you hadn’t gone rogue, of course-- and if you had, to see to your purpose myself.”

“I disagree. You have come for your friend.”

“A coincidental benefit of my primary purpose.” Kirk smiled his most disarming smile. “You want your crew. Give him to me, and I’ll tell you how to get them.”

“I will give him to you when I have my crew safe and in my possession. No sooner.”

“Have it your way.” Kirk lifted his chin, surveying the roof of the cavern. “Let’s just get the fuck off this world before moonrise.”

“I have acquired agents here. Casteless warriors, those considered too extreme even for inclusion in their own savage race.” Harrison smiled mirthlessly. “I will gather them for beam-up. Remain here.” He left, then a blast shield slid down across the mouth of the entrance, trapping Kirk inside with the cryo tube-- and with Spock. 

Kirk watched him go, lounging at ease with arms folded, then straightened and hurried to the cryo-tube where Bones lay. He examined the control panels and straightened, sighing, setting his hand on the smooth metal. “Hang in there, Bones. I’ll get you out of this, I swear.” 

Spock chose to step from concealment, phaser drawn. “You have chosen a most interesting method to achieve your goals.”

“Jesus Christ, if you’re here, why didn’t you take Bones and go already?!” Kirk whirled to face Spock. “Call T’Rileh and have her beam the two of you out before Harrison gets back!”

“She is not responsive. I assume the T’Pel was damaged or destroyed in the explosion on Praxis.” Spock kept him covered, moving carefully out of concealment to angle for a better shot. “You might have mentioned its planned destruction.”

Kirk grimaced. “Stay hidden. Shit. Now what are we gonna do?” He scrubbed a hand across his face. “How could I know he was ready to detonate? God, the bastard moves fast.”

“There is no we,” Spock said evenly. “You are a traitor to Starfleet and to the Federation, and I am placing you under arrest.”

“Yeah, that’s nice; you do that,” Kirk tipped his head toward the cryo-tube. “It won’t help Bones, though. If you want to take him yourself, you’re gonna have to hide again and wait, Spock. But it’s not gonna be safe here with all the meteorites from Praxis. You’re our ace in the hole.” Kirk held out his empty hands, palm up.

“Shall I now call you a ‘snake in the grass?’” Spock did not let the phaser waver. 

“Don’t be obtuse,” Kirk snapped. “I had to gain Harrison’s confidence. The phaser was on stun. What more do you want?”

Kirk’s head on a platter, perhaps. Spock’s phaser did not waver.

“Look, it’ll be days before anybody from the Federation gets to the Neutral Zone, and I don’t know how to thaw Bones out. Do you? No. So if Harrison leaves him here, that’s several solar cycles of this place getting bombarded with a whole moon worth of space debris, Spock, and I don’t like those odds.” Kirk looked exasperated. “I don’t know if I can get Harrison to beam the cryo-tube; I don’t even know if it’d be safe to try with Bones inside. If he gets left behind, he’s gonna need you. So hide before Harrison gets back, okay? Or I might have to shoot you for real this time.”

Spock glanced up, hearing footsteps beyond the blast door. Reluctantly deciding Kirk’s words were logical, he ducked behind his pillar again. 

Harrison stepped in, leading a line of ragged Klingon warriors-- scarred, grizzled battle veterans brandishing a variety of wicked sharpened-metal tools. One held a targ on a lead; it lifted its coarse-bristled snout to sniff the room.

“You did not venture the gamble of thawing the doctor, I see.” Harrison smiled faintly, setting his transporter pad on the ground. “I confess to relief in this.” He motioned two of the Klingons forward to take the tube. Helpless, Spock watched Leonard’s body shift slightly as they lifted it, holding it level between them. “He was not an agreeable companion until I froze him.”

“Where are we headed?” Kirk stepped forward confidently to take his place among the group, but a blade arced through the air, settling near his throat to hold him back. 

“Ah, I see you have failed to understand your position, Kirk.” Harrison smiled. “My mobile transportation unit has limited capacity, you see, and you are of low priority to me. I will only take my most trusted, most useful followers, and despite your attempts to prove your worth, you are not among them.” His fingers danced on the control panel.

 _“HlghoS,”_ he said, gesturing sharply to four of the warriors, including the two who carried the tube.

Spock could have groaned as the range of probable outcomes swiftly narrowed down to a single certainty: himself and Kirk marooned on Qo’noS, bombarded by meteorites and stuck many days’ walk from the nearest spaceport. He turned his phaser to full power, only half-aware of Harrison speaking.

“Before you die, Kirk, know the true name of your enemy,” the man sneered, lifting his head and puffing his chest with pride. “I am Khan Noonien Singh, and I once ruled a quarter of the Earth. Soon, I will rule it all-- and then the galaxy will bow to me.”

Spock rolled out from behind the pillar, firing, but Khan had already energized the pad and the bolt passed harmlessly through the shimmering sparkles of his dematerialization.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _HlghoS_ : Come here


	49. Chapter 49

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: excessive Kirkish swearing

“FUCK!” Kirk expended considerable energy on the useless invective while Spock lunged forward to join battle at his side.

Demoralized by the departure of their leader, the remaining Klingons nevertheless formed a defensive band and fought well, but they did not have ranged weapons. Spock was able to pick two off, leaving them stunned on the ground, before melee closed in around him. Scooping up a mek’leth from a fallen warrior, he hefted it and spun, kicking back another, then swinging the weapon in a vicious roundhouse arc that took a fourth warrior’s head.

Rage flowed through him and he fought in a green haze of fury, lashing out against anything that stood in his path with hands and feet and blade, screaming Klingons giving way before him like water. It seemed to take very little time, leaving him empty and seething, glaring about for more Klingons to kill, the purple-stained blade trembling in his hand, his knuckles bloodless white.

Slowly he straightened and let the weapon sag, wiping a hand across his cheek and finding a green stain on the back of his fingers where a knife had penetrated his guard. 

“Shit,” Kirk spat, kicking the armor-plated chest of a hulking behemoth, then bending to take the Klingon’s knife. “Remind me not to piss you off.”

Kirk stood over the remains of a pair of Klingons, chest heaving as he caught his breath. Spock stepped forward, prodding them with one end of the mek'leth to ensure they were dead, moving with savage grace despite the burn in his wounded shoulder, almost forgotten until now in the heat of his anguish at losing McCoy. 

“Cocksucking motherfucking sonofabitchinbastard,” Kirk muttered under his breath, nudging at the limp body nearest him with a toe; Spock declined to inquire who Kirk intended as the preferred recipient of the burning epithets, indifferent to whether it was himself or Khan. “Goddamned shit-sucking fuckfaced asshole.” 

“Your invective, though colorful, serves no purpose,” Spock commented, rather cruelly; he was also emotionally compromised. He wished he too were allowed to vent more of the frustrated battle lust still coursing through his body-- and the bitter disappointment of having had Leonard within his grasp only to witness him slip away a second time. 

“Mother _fucker_ ,” Kirk directed at him with no apparent improvement of temperament. Spock resisted the petty temptation to correct the epithet, which was inaccurate in all possible particulars.

“We must leave this world as swiftly as possible.”

“Yeah, and how the hell do you plan on that, pointy?” Kirk got a toe under a Klingon and flipped him over, rather unfortunately exposing the warrior’s cut throat. 

Mild racial slurs were, at least, preferable to the prior sexual and scatological tirade. 

“We must locate and steal a ship.” Spock watched as Kirk began searching the body for useful equipment. After a moment, he followed suit, selecting a less bloody corpse for his own inspection. The floor rumbled and shifted a little underfoot: a minor seismic disturbance. Spock recalled those were common on this world, harbingers of volcanic activity. He regretted being stranded here.

“Good luck with that. Nearest town’s about three weeks’ walk north of here.” Kirk grunted his dissatisfaction at the equipment on his chosen corpse and abandoned it empty-handed. 

“Then I propose we provision ourselves as well as possible and begin our journey at once.” Spock considered the human, feeling the weight of the blade hanging from his hands. Perhaps he should kill Kirk now to prevent further treachery. The part of him that still howled with rage over the renewed loss of his mate hungered for it. Perhaps it would even be logical.

“Yeah, well, if this guy’s any indication, there’s nothing on the Klingons worth taking except maybe a knife or two.” Kirk lifted his head and glanced around. “Harrison-- Khan-- has to have a supply cache around here somewhere.”

“Yes. His revelation of his true identity is most illuminating,” Spock agreed, forcing back his wrath as best he could; Kirk might be of use until he encountered renewed opportunities to turn coat. “I assume you are familiar with the Terran Eugenics Wars, during which he rose to power-- if his claim of identity is to believed.”

“I know more about them than you,” Kirk told him in a surly tone, making the claim apparently by pure virtue of sharing Terran ancestry with Khan. Spock desisted in sharing information despite his doubts to the contrary. He raised his head, seeking the source of a snuffling noise, and discovered the targ, now trailing its leash, nosing its way around the perimeter of the chamber. 

“Logically, the supply cache will have prints leading to it. Perhaps we may follow them.”

“Or that targ might sniff it out for us.”

“If you are capable of commanding the targ, by all means, be my guest.”

“I thought maybe you might put that superior Vulcan brain to work for once and use your telepathic voodoo on it-- so far it looks like you only use your head for a hat rack!”

“Shifting the frustration of your own guilt and anger onto me is not productive.” Spock said flatly. He approached the targ with caution; though it appeared domesticated, such beasts were frequently quite savage. It showed no interest in him, preferring to gnaw at its newest discovery-- a severed head, having rolled against the wall courtesy of Spock’s stolen mek'leth. 

Spock contacted its primitive mind with some distaste. It did not seem aware of any source of food other than the rather dubious feast Kirk and Spock had provided and left conveniently lying upon the floor. He shuddered, withdrawing, wishing to purge his brain swiftly of such carnivorous thoughts.

“The targ does not know of any cache, and given its preoccupation with the carrion in the room, it has no interest in seeking for hidden foodstuffs.” Spock detached the leash and collar from the beast; let it go wild once more. 

“Well,” Kirk said. “These are the best knives of the bunch.” He tucked a long, wicked blade in his belt and offered another to Spock. 

Spock took the knife and touched the trigger button on its hilt, watching vicious spikes spring forth on either side of the blade collar. The cannelure was deep, extending most of the length of the blade, and the tang reached all the way to the end of the hilt. With the exception of the spikes themselves, it would be very strong. It had not been bloodied in the fight.

It would do admirably, should it become necessary to end Kirk’s treachery.

Spock accepted the knife, then turned on his heel and left the chamber, leaving it up to Kirk whether to follow. 

“We should take the targ with us. If all else fails, we can eat it.” Kirk made an abortive grab for the leash. 

“If you wish to care for an animal in order to lead it to slaughter, that is your affair.” Spock put the leash on a shelf. “It will slow our progress, and I have no interest in consuming animal flesh.”

Kirk scowled and followed him without taking the leash. “You’re just pissed off because I shot you.”

“I do not get ‘pissed off,’” Spock stated, despite evidence to the contrary.

“Like hell. You already admitted I pissed you off enough that you jacked up the Kobayashi Maru just for me.” Kirk strode along at his side, easily keeping up as Spock scanned the perimeter of the cavern. “I had to shoot you so Harrison would think I was on the up-and-up. You’re obviously not with Admiral Marcus.”

“And you obviously are,” Spock said tartly.

“You’re not very observant, are you?” Kirk narrowed his eyes at the wall and began to prod it with his fingertips.

Spock glanced up from his tricorder, keeping his expression carefully austere. “The wall is composed of solid rock at the point you are investigating.”

Kirk grunted and kept going, but if there were a supply cache in the cavern, it eluded even the tricorder.

“Maybe Khan’s been engineered not to need food or shelter for long periods,” Kirk muttered, glancing at the sky outside. “I don’t know about the lunar cycle, but the planet’s still rotating, so it won’t be long before we start receiving meteoritic debris from the explosion. If we’re going to move out, we may as well get going so we can find some kind of shelter before it gets dark.”

“Shelter will be of little use against meteorites, particularly sizeable ones,” Spock pointed out.

“It’ll keep us from getting washed away by a storm. If we’re lucky.” Kirk glanced up at the atmosphere, where layers of turbulent cloud roiled, stacking high under the rising orange sun. “This place gets ridiculous low pressure systems that can get up to 4500 kilometers across; they make hurricanes look like summer thundershowers. You’d think all the mountain ridges would break them up, but they’re too strong for that. The clouds reach way up into the thermosphere.”

“You know a remarkable amount about the Klingon homeworld.”

“Let’s just say I’ve done my homework.” Kirk gave him a smug wink. He appeared to be faring well thus far despite the higher-than-Terran gravity, but Spock suspected it would soon take its toll. Even he had grown soft, unused to the 1.2 gravity, though it was weaker than that of Vulcan. 

The atmosphere was more of a challenge for Spock, each breath thick with humidity. After the dry dust of Arizona, it felt like breathing warmed-over soup; the high fraction of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere would benefit neither his physiology nor Kirk’s. 

Kirk set a steady trot across the plain, but after leaving the dump area, they soon slowed to a slog. The cultivated ground was wet from frequent rainfall, and the heavy, clay-like soil collected in thick wads on their boots, weighing down their feet like magnetic boots on deck plating.

“This is not an acceptable course.” Spock glanced toward the mountain ranges on the distant horizon. “Though it may significantly increase the mileage between us and our goal, I propose we seek out the nearest mountainous area and move about its fringes in order to avoid the disturbed earth of the agricultural plain.”

Kirk sighed and waited for him to scan to find the closest mountain outcrop, then adjusted his trajectory. After a time they encountered a drainage ditch. They sat down and scraped the mud off their boots, preparing to parallel its course.

“Bones is gonna be all right. Khan needs him.” Kirk recited the words as if by rote, staring down at his mud-caked boots, his jaw taut.

“This is the second time you have attempted to provide comfort I do not require. In any case, your words are purely speculative.”

“Did it ever occur to you I might be the one who needs to hear it said?” Kirk flung aside the scrap of rock he’d been using to scrape his boots and struggled to his feet. “Fuck, I always knew Bones was a glutton for punishment, but you’re just ridiculous.” He stalked off. Spock finished cleaning his own boots before following, giving the man approximately 100 meters of space to himself, an act which had the considerable peripheral benefit of allowing Spock time to work at quenching the coals of anger still simmering in his mind.

It was unfortunate they had arrived so early in the growing season, between initial cultivation and planting. Little edible matter might be found growing at this season. Perhaps Kirk had been correct in his suggestion that they bring the targ; he, at least, could have achieved subsistence for a time on its flesh. As they walked Spock’s tricorder identified a bush as bearing _DIghna'_ leaves, and he plucked all he could harvest, chewing one of the bitter, fleshy ovals as he followed in Kirk’s wake, unhurried. 

Kirk pushed himself till it seemed he couldn’t go any further, then sank down by the brink of the ditch to pant for breath, sparing a glower for Spock as he approached. A spatter of warm rain pelted down, staining their clothing with round, dark splotches. “More where that came from,” Kirk muttered. “And no shelter in sight.”

“I estimate at our current velocity, we will reach the foothills in three days.” 

“We aren’t going to get there before the storm hits,” Kirk muttered. An ominous rumble growled from the sky, accompanied by a flicker of lightning, then a louder rumble, the shockwaves from the atmospheric concussion rolling across the plain with almost visible force. 

Spock weighed their options with concern. “This drainage ditch is likely to flood soon after the storm breaks,” he reported. “We will need to seek higher ground.”

“We’re already the tallest damn thing on these plains,” Kirk protested. “That lightning’s gonna be looking for a place to ground itself.”

“Then we should seek high ground and lie prone until the storm passes.” Spock consulted his tricorder. “Follow me.”


	50. Chapter 50

High ground turned out to be a shelf of rock the cultivators hadn’t managed to plow, a low ridge of black-speckled white diorite that rose to a crest not far from the drainage ditch. By the time they reached it, the clouds overhead boiled black, a constant percussion of thunder battering the land, and the spatters of rain had become a curtain, advancing toward them across the broken clods of the field. 

Spock flattened himself to the ground, his skin prickling, and hauled Kirk down with him just as a flare of lightning stabbed the ground nearby, spreading enough residual electrical charge through the wet ground to make his teeth ache in his jaw. 

Rain and wind struck simultaneously. Spock huddled against the lee of the low outcrop, dragging Kirk with him; rain poured down in a sudden torrent, making speech impossible. 

Spock tucked his face between Kirk’s shoulder blades and they lay huddled there, rain streaming over them so thickly Spock had to work hard at suppressing the instincts that suggested he would surely drown. Kirk’s strong heartbeat helped to ground him, tangible despite the many sensations battering at them-- icy rain pounding down with enough force to sting, thunder shuddering the very ground on which they lay, wind tugging at their sodden clothes and hair, leaching away warmth. 

If this storm was 4500 kilometers wide, it could last for many days. The lightning would not permit further foot-travel; by the time the storm exhausted itself, they would be hypothermic, possibly dehydrated (a cruel irony, given the sheer volume of the rain), and starving. Of the three, hypothermia definitely presented the greatest threat to them both. 

Given their contact, he could feel the same thoughts pulsing through the surface of Kirk’s mind, engendering fear-- but swiftly behind it followed absolute, brutal determination. Spock blinked, recognizing the pattern abruptly; this was the actual manifestation of the abstract he had viewed in Kirk’s psychological profile and witnessed in his performance on the Kobayashi Maru. This human’s mind was made of steel; he would never give up. 

He realized Kirk was shouting at him, but he could not hear. Without deepening the meld, he could only sense growing exasperation. At last Kirk struggled to turn in his arms, snatching his tricorder, and raised himself to hands and knees, shielding the readout with his body. 

He shouted again, waving the display; Spock struggled to blink water off his eyelashes, failing to comprehend. Fed up, Kirk snatched his hand. 

_Extinct volcanic lava tube,_ Kirk shouted into his mind, making him wince. Spock wrenched away, but he now comprehended Kirk’s intent and fumbled for his phaser. They crawled over the ground, inches deep in mud, until they crouched over the hollow tube, then Spock drew his phaser, which had partly recharged as they traveled. He aimed and fired, a sustained burst that burned away the upper layers of earth and rock, leaving a dark hole in the top of the tube. Kirk immediately slithered in, avoiding the still-steaming edge, and Spock followed.

The rain and roaring wind ceased to buffet them, and though rain cascaded down from the hole, the deafening din of the storm was modulated enough that Spock could hear once more.

“The tube slants uphill in this direction.” Spock led Kirk away from the hole, proceeding with caution; such a place might make an admirable shelter for any local fauna, several of which were dangerous carnivores. 

“God, what a fucking mess.” Kirk stripped water from his hair and wrung it out of his sleeves and the hem of his shirt; he looked like he had rolled deliberately in muck. Spock knew he was not much cleaner. “And no wood or other debris anywhere for a fire-- at least that means this tube probably won’t flood.”

Spock nodded. “We should be far enough from the entry now to experience few deleterious effects from the weather.” He stopped a few meters from the hole and sank to the floor, dripping as he surveyed the smooth-melted texture of the walls and the good condition of the tube. “There has been recent volcanic activity in this vicinity.” As if to answer his words, the ground trembled again, a prolonged if subtle shudder that made dust sift down from the ceiling. 

“Yeah. We’ll have to watch out for that. Still, I’d rather be underground with the possibility of a cave-in than up there with the lightning.” Kirk ran muddy fingers through his hair, grimacing. “And we could always go back to the hole if we want a shower.”

“I believe I prefer the mud.” Spock grimaced as his shoulder resisted motion.

“You were hit back in the fight.” Kirk came over to prod at him. “Peel off and let me patch you up.”

Spock recoiled from the human’s touch. “It is nothing.”

“Yeah, just let it get infected and we’ll see how much nothing it is. Peel off.”

Reluctantly Spock complied. Kirk went to rinse off his shirt at the hole-- as well as could be achieved in the muddy torrent; at least the clinging clumps of dirt were removed. Spock surveyed his own shoulder with dismay; the phaser blast had penetrated the skin, and blood seeped slowly from open tears in the burned flesh. Kirk was right; the wound was likely to become infected.

He gazed up and found Kirk standing nearby, his dripping shirt in hand, gazing at him, face expressionless. He had rinsed himself, as well, and his shock of untamed hair hung wet and dripping, flung to one side of his forehead. 

Spock felt his partial nudity keenly under the sharp regard, but he refused to cringe away from Kirk’s gaze, holding himself perfectly still. After a moment the human stirred himself, stepping forward. 

“We have no disinfectants or clean bandages. I should venture a healing trance to compensate for infectious organisms and seal the skin,” he stated. “If I do so, I will be unconscious for a period of several hours, and you may have to rouse me when I have finished.” He found himself hesitant to trust Kirk to wake him. 

“Let me sterilize this and bathe the wound before you do.” Kirk hauled off his own shirt and undershirt, tearing a wide strip out of its hem, and took Spock’s phaser, dialing it down to the lowest setting and firing, making the wet cloth hiss and steam. 

“That ought to get rid of the worst of the bacterial agents,” he muttered, picking gingerly at the piping-hot cloth until it unfolded in his hand and cooled. He dabbed at Spock’s cut face gingerly with the trailing end, then shifted his fingers to a new bit of cloth, cleaning grime and half-scabbed blood out of the tears in Spock’s shoulder, scowling at them. “Bones’d kill us both and mutter about medieval medicine, but it’s better than nothing.”

He bound Spock’s arm with the rest, doing the best he could despite the inconvenient location of the burn. Spock watched him, cautious but allowing the work; he could not reach himself so easily. “Thank you,” he said reluctantly when Kirk finished.

“No problem.” Kirk flopped back against the wall, sighing. “When you want me to wake you?”

Spock considered. “I do not believe the wound is severe enough to warrant a healing trance.” He could not be sure Kirk would keep his word.

“You mean you don’t trust me to wake you up.”

Spock let silence speak assent. 

“Can’t say as I blame you.” Kirk stared up at the ceiling. 

“The injury is largely superficial.”

Kirk nodded. “We should watch out for volcanic activity,” he said after the pause grew uncomfortable. “The explosion of Praxis will shift the gravitational forces and interfere with plate tectonics. Qo’noS is pretty unstable to begin with. There’ll be a cluster of seismic disturbances, probably a lot of new eruptions.”

“It is little wonder the Klingons are such a warlike race, given the hostile nature of their natural environment.”

“Yeah. Lots of tribes pecking at each other for prime resources all through their history.” Kirk squinted up the lava tube. “Still, these lava tubes look like highways compared to the outdoors, and I bet they lead off toward the mountains.” 

“They will lead us toward an epicenter of volcanic activity.”

“Beats the ion storm.” Kirk shrugged. “Let’s see how far this one takes us. We’ll keep a scan on the ceiling and if it starts to go too far underground, we’ll shoot our way out and find a better one.”

“As long as the storm persists and the tube system remains dry, inactive, and empty of predators, this course of action seems logical.” Spock reached for his overshirt, conscious of Kirk’s eyes still resting on him in a manner that made him quite uncomfortable. He managed to haul it on, tightening his jaw against the pain of his shoulder. 

“You’re hard to make small talk with,” Kirk observed after a few minutes passed in silence. “What do you and Bones talk about?”

Surprised, Spock considered the question; conversation had never seemed a difficulty with Leonard. The answer was neither particularly intimate nor of great import. “Medical and scientific trivia relevant to our careers and interests. San Francisco history. Starfleet policies and their impact upon the Federation at large. Art. Weather. Other matters of similar import.” He was not quite sure why he gave Kirk an answer. “What do you discuss with Leonard?”

“Girls. I tell him about my dates, he doesn’t tell me much.” Kirk hesitated. “Our classes. Homework. His family.”

Spock bristled before he could help himself; Leonard had been extremely reticent regarding his family. 

Kirk noticed, one brow rising. “He not talk to you about that?”

“I am aware of his divorce and his limited ability to interact with his daughter, Joanna.”

“Yeah, well. His ex-wife did a fucking number on him. That’s a euphemism for ‘she hurt him every damn way she could come up with, and then some.’” Kirk eyed Spock sidelong. “He’s been refusing to go out with anybody for as long as I’ve known him, at least till you came along. And he wouldn’t admit he was going out with you till after Christmas.”

“He intimated the time commitment to his residency was to blame for their separation.” Spock wondered at Kirk’s talkative mood; there must be a hidden motive, but he would not resist attaining more knowledge of Leonard’s history.

Kirk snorted. “He tried to tell me that at first, too. Jocelyn fucked around behind his back while he was trying to finish his residency. He had a five-year stint at Grady in Atlanta; they divorced just around the time he finished it. That’s in the public record. You wanna know more, you’re gonna have to ask him.”

Perhaps Jocelyn’s infidelity explained the need for Joanna’s paternity test, which Leonard had once mentioned in passing. Spock contemplated the new information, finding it compatible with Leonard’s reluctance to make a final commitment to become his bondmate. 

“We’re gonna fucking freeze in here if we don’t get dried off,” Kirk muttered and lurched to his feet. He wandered around gathering the few stones he could find and piling them up. Taking Spock’s phaser, he heated them, then the two huddled over the glowing pile, warming their hands as their clothing began to steam dry. Their shoulders bumped, and Spock shifted away automatically. 

Spock reached and pulled his small store of _DIghna'_ leaves from his pocket. “I found a source of food as we walked along the ditch. Klingons chew these leaves for their nutritional value.”

Kirk accepted one, giving it a wry face. He bit at a corner and grimaced, wrinkling his nose. “Thanks.” He ate the leaf without enjoyment, chewing and swallowing the fibrous pulp. “You should really do your trance thing. I promise I’ll wake you up. Pinky-swear.” He extended his smallest finger and Spock stared at it, baffled.

“That’s a solemn and unbreakable oath on Earth,” Kirk insisted. “Stick your hand out. Now crook your little finger around mine. Like that.”

The telepathic contact was not as strong as it would have been through their forefingers, but it was enough to transmit Kirk’s sincerity, along with a number of his surface thoughts, and enough to make Kirk blink with sudden awareness of Spock’s mind touching his.

“Uh, wow.” He drew back. “Guess you don’t have to ask if I was telling the truth.”

“I fail to see what a children’s oath-taking ritual has to do with the trustworthiness of a proven double agent,” Spock answered evasively. 

“Just go ahead patch yourself up.” Kirk sighed, picking up one of the rocks to absorb the last of its fading warmth. “I’ll keep watch. Don’t worry; if I let you get hurt, Bones will make sure I squat to piss until the day I die.”

Spock considered; that seemed unlikely, but Kirk’s meaning was understood. He put his hand to his sternum where Kirk’s stun had struck him. There was a lesser injury there, unseen: a bruise and soreness in his muscles where Kirk had shot him in the solar plexus, causing minor but deep tissue damage uncomfortably close to his heart. He needed the trance more than he cared to confess. Kirk might be treacherous, but he would need Spock’s aid for a time, at least until they escaped from Qo’noS. He should prove trustworthy-- for now.

“Very well. When I move or speak, you must strike me until I am conscious.” He lay down, wary, and composed himself with care upon the hard stone, closing his eyes. Kirk triggered the phaser again and warmth glowed from the stones, soothing on his left side. 

Spock let himself slip under, focusing on his heartbeat and dispersing his consciousness into the bodily functions required to make himself whole.


	51. Chapter 51

Spock roused to the half-consciousness of the trance, disoriented and confused; a warm body lay close behind him, comforting. Spock turned, instinctively drawing Leonard into his arms, but it was not Leonard’s mind against his; this mind was of an entirely different shape and feeling. A hand struck him, pain flashing across his consciousness; then he was struck again, and he forced himself forward, hands closing around a vulnerable throat, eyes fluttering open…. 

….To find James Kirk crushed beneath him, big blue eyes wide and startled in the faint light, his hands battering futilely at Spock’s shoulders and face, trying to push him away.

Spock removed his hands immediately and sat up, breaking contact.

“I apologize. I did not expect to be wakened thus by someone lying in close proximity.” He heard the stiffness in his own voice but did not repent of it. “At first I believed you were Leonard, but after I realized you were not, I temporarily believed I was being attacked.” He had never before awakened with anyone other than Leonard sleeping at his side, and it disconcerted him to feel the faint traces of Kirk’s warmth fading from his skin. The ground shuddered, a sharp jolt that made Spock’s teeth click together. Perhaps a meteorite strike.

“Sorry. It was fucking cold in here and I couldn’t keep draining the phaser. That power cell won’t last forever.” Kirk coughed, handling his throat tenderly. “Fuck. See if I tell you to fix yourself up again.” He pushed himself up with exaggerated care, working his jaw. 

“I apologize.” Spock stiffened even more, looking away. “Perhaps we are now even for the phaser stun you delivered.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Kirk sat up and yawned. “Just leaves for breakfast?”

“They are all I have, and we must ration them with care.” Spock handed him one and they sat chewing as they gazed at the opening several meters away, where muddy water still sluiced in from the unceasing rain. “We do not know when we may have an opportunity to gather more.”

“Good point.” Kirk stretched stiff muscles with a sigh, then ate the rest of his leaf neatly in three bites, apparently not finding it particularly enjoyable fare. “I’ve got an LED light on my pocket-knife, so we won’t be wandering in the dark. Let’s get moving.”

The tube paralleled the surface for some miles. In places the ceiling had torn open to reveal the lashing rain and flares of lightning, and in others it had cracked, allowing torrents of muddy water to pour down only to drain away into the porous ground several steps onward. Spock judged many breaks new ones based on the sharpness of the edges. Tremors in the ground had become more frequent-- some short and swiftly ended, others long, drawn-out shudders that rippled through the land.

The eruption that formed this lava tube must have been particularly intense and prolonged to create a lava field so distant from the mountain range; doubtless these fertile fields had formed during a major eruption, probably from a combination of magma, pyroclastic matter, and ash-fall, soon weathering into tillable soil under the persistent weather. Long after the process of breakdown began, the volcano had pumped out more and more lava through its underground network, extending the fields far and wide, producing the wide plains of fertile farmland necessary for sustaining the Klingon race. 

Brightness heralded a large break in the tube, and Spock squinted against the light, moving forward with caution. The tube came to an abrupt end in midair a few meters ahead. The floor near the break was unsteady, shivering steadily as if vast machinery were humming far below ground. Through a haze of rain Spock could make out a vast crater, freshly ripped into the ground. The rain had only begun to wash new debris and dirt into the bowl, smoothing the edges of the raw gouge.

“This must be a meteoritic crater from a large fragment of Praxis,” he guessed. “We will have to traverse it and find the tube again on the other side, or perhaps return to the surface and seek another way forward.” He gazed across the declivity; a puff of smoke was rising from the bottom of the crater. He thought he could see an orange glow radiating through a vent there. The impact had been so severe, it had cracked the planet’s crust.

“Yeah, the ground shook pretty badly early this morning while you were still dead to the world.” Kirk stepped forward to peer out. “I thought the tube might collapse, but I didn’t know if it was volcanic activity or a meteorite impact.” He grimaced. “Guess it was a meteorite-- a damn big one. How are you at rock climbing? Climbing down looks like a bad idea.”

“I have done considerable climbing on Vulcan.” Spock looked doubtfully at the slippery muck coating most of the nearby rock surfaces. “However, that was under desert conditions.” 

“Well, it’s a long drop into the crater, but at least we don’t have far to climb to reach the surface.” Kirk tucked all his equipment more or less securely about his person and grabbed a stable outcrop, leaning out and blinking up into the rain as he tried to plan a route. “Yeah, we can climb that. I’ll give you a boost. You pull me up if I get in trouble.”

Spock agreed reluctantly, and Kirk knelt at the end of the tunnel, letting him climb onto his back. He stood up with a grunt and a rather alarming little stagger. Spock clung to the rocks, digging in his nails until Kirk steadied, then got to his feet atop the human’s shoulders. After that it was an easy, if messy, climb up to the surface. He gazed across the familiar fields, which stretched away implacably in every direction under pounding rain as if no mere meteor crater could possibly dare to disturb their otherwise unbroken surface.

Spock got down onto his belly and reached for Kirk, who was already attempting the climb. He caught Kirk’s uppermost wrist in his hand just as a loose stone came out from under the human’s toes, and Kirk lurched downward with a gasp, his bright blue eyes blinking up at the rain, at Spock, terror flashing across his expression.

In that split second Spock watched Kirk’s death become a certainty in his mind, vivid and harsh across the surface of his thoughts-- the belief that he would fall, that Spock would allow it in order to be rid of him.

Spock did not release his grip, catching Kirk’s wrist in both hands, scrabbling against the drag of his weight, which inexorably pulled Spock forward in the slippery mud. There was no better purchase to be had.

Spock had no time to debate the wisdom or the logic of allowing Kirk to fall. Instead he _hauled_ with all his might, kicking himself upright even as he started to slide forward, setting his knees and falling backward over them, dragging Kirk up and over the lip of the crater by sheer brute strength and force of will.

Kirk screamed, his shoulder popping out of its socket, but he was up, lying safely half on top of Spock’s belly and squashing him down into the sucking mud. Kirk’s knees still hung out over the drop, and he squirmed away from the edge in haste, kicking feebly.

“Oh holy fuck,” Kirk whimpered. “Bones was right, fucking _hell…!”_

Spock did not ask what Leonard had been correct about as Kirk rolled off him, cradling his dislocated shoulder; Kirk obliged him anyway. “Shoulda gone and got the regen treatment right after this happened, fucking **_fuck!_ ”**

Spock tilted his head, swiping mud out of his eyes, and examined the injury. Fortunately, the treatment for such a thing was relatively simple. He helped Kirk upright, then seized the shoulder and the arm.

“Oh fuck, _don’t_ \--” Kirk throttled a shriek through gritted teeth as the bone settled into its proper place again. “Just as bad as he is. Son of a _bitch!”_ The ground shook with bone-rattling intensity, sending cascades of loose earth sliding into the crater.

“You should not have neglected to seek out the recommended medical treatment.”

“Goddammit,” Kirk gasped, ignoring Spock, his face mottled red with pain and stress. “Let’s get away from this fucking crater before the fucking edge collapses!” It seemed the inventiveness of his epithets decreased as his stress and pain levels increased, a fact Spock duly noted for future reference.

The suggestion was quite logical, so Spock set out in a roughly westward direction and elected to parallel the lip of the crater a prudent fifty meters back. The thunder seemed to have settled, leaving only the pouring rain, and for that he was grateful. 

Kirk straggled after him, still swearing loudly enough to be heard over the rain. Spock ignored him and his failure to proffer thanks for the rescue, which after all were neither logical nor necessary. 

The drag of Kirk’s weight through the injury as Spock pulled him up would have done considerable soft tissue damage, Spock supposed; there was little that could be done about it without a competent doctor and a well-equipped medical facility, neither of which were at hand. Kirk would simply have to endure. 

“There appears to be a settlement on the other side of the crater,” Spock observed after a time, cutting into the litany of complaint behind him. “Perhaps we may provision ourselves or find shelter.”

“Or get our fucking asses killed.” 

“Always a consideration.”


	52. Chapter 52

The lip of the crater was wider than it looked. Given the poor condition of the ground, worsened by the addition of a spray of boulders and debris from the impact site, they moved slowly. By the time they neared the town, darkness had fallen and the two gravitated together, helping hold one another up as they slipped and slid across the muddy, lumpy ground toward the rain-haloed lights. Spock could not tell whether all the light came from the town or some rose from the crater; Klingons favored a smoky orange-red illumination similar to volcanic light.

At last the plowed land gave way to smooth turf and then to a paved path. Both Spock and Kirk were quivering with fatigue and chill by then. Though the air of Qo’noS was relatively warm, the high clouds produced icy-cold precipitation, and they had been soaked through for hours. To survive they would have to find shelter where they could warm themselves and dry their clothing. 

Now that they had reached the settlement, it was apparent some of the light rose from the crater behind them. Spock could no longer ascertain whether the intermittent seismic tremors emanated from it or from meteorite impacts; it was similarly impossible to tell meteorite flares from lightning in the sky. He was so weary that any flash from above nearly provoked him to flinch.

“Place is abandoned,” Kirk grunted. “Or just about. We should’ve been challenged by now.”

Spock spotted the telltale ghost of an electric eye beam captured in the mist of the rain and grimaced, guiding Kirk past it. “The volcanic activity in the adjacent crater was a deterrent to the local populace. Stragglers remain.” He spotted a silhouette ducking out of sight in a nearby window.

“We gotta get out of the rain. Maybe they’ve left some food.” Kirk staggered toward one squat, slanted building, finding a door tucked between two pillars. 

Spock, familiar with Klingon cuisine, was not so optimistic about locating edible material, but the prospect of warmth was enough to tempt him in behind Kirk. Automated lights flickered on as they entered, revealing a cluttered parlor with numerous padded chairs, arranged around the perimeter of the room in pairs, a deep fireplace with baskets of compressed cellulose fibers and dried animal dung, and lush carpeting. The walls were festooned with a number of distressingly explicit artworks and dotted with mirrors.

Kirk brightened. “I do believe we’ve stumbled into a brothel, Spock.” He rubbed his palms together with gleeful anticipation.

Spock blinked, averting his eyes from the walls with considerable discomfort. “I see little cause for your approval, Mr. Kirk.”

“That’s because you’ve never been in a house of ill fame, obviously.” He was already rummaging around behind a bar on the far end of the room. “Liquor cabinet-- they’ve left us a few of the open bottles, at least. Some food; at least I think this is food. Well, it’s meat. Maybe.” He lifted a container and shook it at Spock. “Even better, there’ll be a dozen beds to choose from and lots of clothes. People like their prostitutes dressed up so they can take all those fancy clothes right back off again.”

Spock recoiled. “I will defer to your superior expertise in this matter.” He would not, however, willingly utilize beds formerly occupied by employees and customers in a house of prostitution.

Spock occupied himself with lighting a fire while Kirk rummaged, coming back to the parlor with armloads of clothes and bedding, struggling a little to manage it given his sore shoulder. “This stuff was in the laundry; it ought to be clean. The beds themselves look pretty nasty, I have to admit.” He dumped his plunder in the middle of the floor, and Spock came to investigate it. The bedding did indeed smell acceptably clean, and most of the clothing as well-- though unfortunately a disproportionate amount of it appeared to be intended for females.

He scavenged several pieces-- a long robe he could wrap about himself and loose trousers made of some warm, absorbent fabric. They would do while he waited for his own clothing to dry. He laid his things out by the hearth, wringing the sodden fabric out and draping it carefully over chairs, setting out his boots with the open end pointing toward the flames. 

Kirk emerged and did the same, sighing with relief to be next to the fire; he stripped down to his underwear and draped a blanket around himself before sagging into the mound of bedding. Spock turned away, watching the subtle vibrations of a pane of window-glass, which pulsed without breaking, shuddering in time with the seismic pressure of the volcanic activity in the crater.

“This place is not safe,” he judged. “Within a day, perhaps two, it will be subsumed into the adjacent crater and engulfed by lava.”

“Yeah, and we could get hit by a meteorite or a bolt of lightning the minute we stick our heads out of doors, too.” Kirk lay back. “God, that fire feels good. If I had to choose between the volcano and the storm, right now I’d rather die warm.”

“Highly illogical,” Spock muttered, but his own body felt exceptionally weary as well. He scanned the vicinity with his tricorder and deemed the risks acceptable. Life signs remained muted and distant and the ground appeared acceptably stable.

As Spock grasped bedding and prepared himself a makeshift berth, Kirk stirred and went to the bar, fetching back a half-full liquor bottle. He extinguished the artificial lights, leaving the place bathed in the soft amber glow of the fire. 

Spock resisted the impulse to frown. “Intoxication is unwise given our current circumstances.” The remaining townspeople might decide to group together and assault the intruders.

“I’m just gonna take the edge off.” Kirk took a swig straight from the neck of the bottle. “Holy shit, that stuff’s harsh.” He coughed a little, then drank again. “Want a sip?”

“No, thank you.” Spock would have been grateful for food, but Klingons subsisted almost entirely upon meat. He would investigate for possible nutrient sources after he rested. 

“You ought to, unless you’re planning to have some _gagh.”_ Kirk grimaced, shifting to take pressure off his sore shoulder. “They’re pretty short on salad. At least this stuff has calories in it to keep you going.”

“If there is no other alternative, we will take the alcohol with us when we depart.” Spock settled into his nest of blankets with a sigh. 

“Spock. Can I go ahead and keep calling you Spock?” Kirk propped himself up on his good elbow, looking down at him. His eyes were in shadow, so Spock could not read his expression. “Thanks for not letting go of me back there.”

_Ah. Belated thanks._ Spock looked up at the ceiling. _An emotional reaction._

“It would have been illogical to allow a potentially helpful companion to perish.” Spock stopped short of calling Kirk a friend or ally. 

“I was sure you were gonna let me die.” Kirk scowled at Spock as if it were an accusation. “But you didn’t.”

Spock raised a brow, turning his head to regard Kirk. “That is obvious.”

“Hard as you might find this to believe, you and I are on the same side.” Kirk hesitated, chewing his lip. “If I don’t make it out of this alive, I need you to do something of urgent importance.” Kirk bit the words off crisply, as if they were orders. “I’ve been collecting information for Captain Pike. Go to him and tell him everything you know. There’s a bio-recorder implanted in my third molar on the lower right side. Knock that out of my head if you have to; take it to him.”

Spock blinked at him in the firelight, not bothering to conceal his doubt; Kirk remained still, regarding him steadily.

“You expect me to believe you are working as an official Federation agent.” He had considered that hypothesis himself already, but it was nonetheless a ludicrous and disturbing notion.

“Yes. Pike recruited me fresh out of Iowa. He hauled me out of a goddam bar fight before the MPs could get their claws on me. He figured I was enough of a loose cannon that I could get Marcus to trust me-- and smart enough for him to figure it was worth the risk.” Kirk looked down, hooding those clear, bright eyes for a long moment, his thoughts his own. “Smart enough I could handle going undercover.”

“But you are only--”

“A cadet. Yeah. Tell me something I don’t already know.” Kirk’s voice remained patient despite his sharp words. “Pike said Marcus would never suspect a cadet of being a double agent. But Pike knew all about my dad, so he took a gamble on me.” He took a slow, deep breath. “And for what it’s worth, he read me right. I _don’t_ want a fucking war with the Klingons. I just want Bones back. I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure he’s safe.” His voice turned hard, his jaw set.

“What secrets do you believe Marcus is hiding?”

Kirk shrugged. “Aside from Harrison and his people? You’d be surprised. Area 31 is jammed with engineers, biochemists, and super-weapons development specialists; even Carol’s majoring in weapons technology just to make daddy happy. Marcus’s people all have major projects underway, but that’s small-time stuff. Alexander’s got a huge pet project coming together somewhere; that’s what Pike’s really hoping I’ll dig up. I haven’t found out much about it yet. Whatever it is, he’s managed to keep Starfleet resources and personnel involvement to a minimum, and that makes my investigation harder.” Kirk paused, his voice falling to a whisper. “That’s why I started dating Carol. I had to get closer in.” Pain bled into his words. “She doesn’t deserve this shit, Spock. None of it. God, why’d it all have to go so damn wrong?”

Spock had no answer; he could only lie quiet and listen. _It was wrong to place such a burden on an untrained boy._ Perhaps Pike believed there was no better choice. 

Kirk scrubbed his hand over his face; for a moment he looked terribly young. Then he steeled himself, drawing a deep breath and locking away the moment of regret.

“Alexander’s got investors and donors coming out of his ass, all sending him millions of credits. I hacked into a bank account using his comm and saw a few transaction records coming in, but none of it turns up on his taxes. It’s all funneled away without a trace. It’s got to be going for something huge. I’ve got names, addresses, even a couple of Swiss bank account numbers.” He tapped his tooth to illustrate. “Just no idea _what he’s doing with it_. Not yet. I thought maybe I was getting close. He kept warming up to me little by little; I kept getting farther in. Then this shit happened.”

Spock pursed his lips, considering the information, and Kirk groaned, rolling to his back, fists clenched in frustration. “Yeah, you don’t have to believe a word I say. Just take my tooth to Pike if something happens, OK? You can scan it first; it’s not a damn bomb.” He straightened up again, glaring at Spock. “And for the record, when somebody thanks you for saving his life, the polite thing to say is ‘You’re welcome.’”

“You are welcome, Mr. Kirk,” Spock responded perforce. 

“You’re welcome, _Jim,_ ” Kirk insisted.

Spock did not respond and Kirk lost his temper. “How the hell did you and Bones ever get on a first name basis, much less make it to bed? You saved my life, we’re in a Klingon whorehouse, and I’m sleeping next to _you,_ Spock. I’d say we can drop the damn formalities!”

“I do not see the need--”

“Spock, you said yourself there are Klingons still lurking in this town. You really want us to call each other by Federation titles and ranks?”

“Very well, James.” 

Kirk actually snarled, turning over with his back firmly to Spock, who was grateful for the respite; he had much new information to consider before he slept. 

Spock programmed his tricorder to chime should the seismic readings exceed safety parameters or should it detect signs of life in the immediate vicinity, then meditated on Kirk’s confession until he fell asleep with his phaser on his chest, hand curled firmly around the grip.


	53. Chapter 53

The low warning chime of the tricorder roused Spock from sleep a few hours later, and he blinked himself to rapid wakefulness. It was the intruder alert, not the seismic sensor, though the rumbling had increased and the walls had begun pulsing in a most alarming manner. 

Spock rose stealthily and checked the knife tucked in his belt. His phaser had recharged itself during the day’s activity.

He moved to the door, listening to scratching outside. The knob turned, though the interior latch resisted inward pressure and the portal stood firm.

Spock twitched aside the curtain by the door, revealing two adolescents bent over the knob. They seemed more ragged and unkempt than the recent destruction of Praxis could account for, and he observed they were undernourished. Their weapons appeared to be handmade, small knives honed by patient scraping. 

He went to the pile of supplies Kirk had scavenged and took a two cans, then let himself out through a back entry and slipped around the building, finding the two still squabbling by the front door. 

Spock stood with the cans prominently displayed in one hand and cleared his throat. Two matted heads swiveled around; wild, bright eyes surveyed him, then the two fled in a frantic scramble, not stopping to inquire regarding his intentions. 

Spock sighed a little, tucking the cans back in his pocket. They had gone, but they might return-- perhaps with companions. He glanced up at the sky, not liking the sullen red glow reflected from the scattering clouds. The ground shuddered insistently under his feet.

Spock ventured away from the brothel, taking advantage of the increasing red light to explore the area. Many buildings stood open and showed signs of looting. One appeared to be a storage facility for ground transport. Most vehicles had been removed, but a few remained, some in good repair but empty of fuel. The fueling station in the adjacent wall required an entry code to prompt dispersal of fuel. Spock approached, bending over the terminal. If he could not break in and access the fuel stores, perhaps Kirk could. 

A soft scrape behind him was the only warning; Spock fell and rolled, barely avoiding not a phaser bolt or even a knife, but a hand-flung projectile. The rock clanged against the computer terminal.

“Mine,” a young Klingon man snarled in thickly accented Standard. He held a metal club, apparently a support strut wrenched from a structure. 

Spock reached into his pocket, drawing out a can of food. The Klingon before him did not appear as thin as the two before, but Spock could throw the can if it did not serve as an adequate bargaining tool.

“Do you know the code to allow fueling?” Spock asked calmly. It seemed obvious the Klingon did not; if he had, he would have taken a vehicle and departed this hazardous location.

The young Klingon scowled, ignoring the food. The club swung next to his thigh, threatening but inexpertly wielded.

“I can obtain the code.” Spock had no idea if he was understood. “Then we both may depart from this place.” He gestured at the panel, as if pressing keys.

The young Klingon raised his weapon, snarling. Spock shrugged and edged away. As he moved, the ground lurched savagely under his feet, making dust sift down from the rafters. He would go and retrieve Kirk; the two of them could easily dispatch this young one and depart the vicinity of the crater.

“Give code!” The Klingon brandished his bar, blocking Spock’s exit. 

“My companion can provide it. I must go for him. Then we will trade you the code in exchange for one vehicle.”

“No lies.” The Klingon stepped back, revealing a dozen motley companions-- individuals of every age; the two urchins Spock had seen plus small knots of others. Women, one with a baby in her arms, scarred and grizzled elders… almost no adult males of functional age remained. For whatever reason, these persons had been abandoned or chosen to stay when the remainder of the settlement fled. The young Klingon swung his weapon, which cut through the air savagely. “Or we kill.” 

Some had disruptors in their hands, others had makeshift spears or clubs. Spock gazed at them soberly, nodding. 

“No lies.” If he and Kirk could not obtain fuel, the likelihood existed that all these people would die. 

He edged past them, offering the cans he held, which were snatched away. Spock walked down the lane between buildings, conscious of his audience, who shadowed him at a discreet distance, seeming torn between the vehicles and the escape they represented and the hope he could provide.

Spock glanced up at the clouds, noting the increasing brightness of the light. Dull red had waxed to angry orange, and blinding orange-white shone between gaps in the buildings; he could hear a rumble and spatter of lava fountains and bursting bubbles in the boiling rock. A magma spill seemed imminent. 

He let himself in, finding Kirk waiting, eyes wild and a phaser in his hand.

“Your tricorder went crazy about ten minutes ago. Where the hell were you?” Kirk shook the tricorder at him. 

“The volcanic activity is intensifying, and the adjacent crater is filling rapidly with lava. An eruption is imminent.” Spock said.

“Yeah, this damn place is about to blow sky-high. I thought I’d have to leave you.” 

Spock observed the evidence of this; Kirk had assembled supplies and made two packs for them; all seemed in readiness for leaving.

“I went to scout our possibilities for escape. There are numerous Klingon citizens trapped here; the only means of transportation have no fuel, and they do not know the code to activate the fueling system.”

“I can hack it.”

“That was my belief, James.”

 _“Jim,_ damn it.” Kirk thrust out a handful of gear. “Outfit yourself like a native. I gathered a lot of stuff. Leathers, armor, that sort of thing. It’ll shed the rain a lot better than soft cloth.” Kirk dragged on a pair of armor-reinforced Klingon trousers, actually hopping to get them to slide up along his legs and settle around his slim hips. 

Spock blinked at him for a moment, then investigated Kirk’s choices, finding nothing much to his liking. The armor was garish, more decorative than functional. Though it was less absorbent than his Terran clothing, its insulating properties were dubious at best.

He reluctantly placed the least flashy of the Klingon tunics and coats over the top of his own damp thermal gear; the inflexible material made his shoulders objectionably stiff and bulky. Jim had on a bulky Klingon vest with heavy shoulders and a padded breastplate; he’d even put on a pair of armored boots with thick, heavy soles.

“You should wear the boots, too.”

Spock eyed the platform boots with extreme distaste. “I do not care to fracture my ankles.”

“Klingons are so sensitive about their heights,” Kirk chuckled. “You won’t look very fashionable in your plain boots. The mud’s ruined them, anyway.”

“I care little for fashion.”

“You should.” Kirk gave him a smug smirk and began to pick through the garments in haste, stuffing his selections into a sack. “Because I have a plan.”

Spock eyed him with distrust. He could already tell he wasn’t going to like it.

*****

The new volcanic vent rumbled as they emerged, shaking the ground savagely; fountains of lava lit the sky and tephra spattered down everywhere, the particles of rock still smoking, stinging against Spock’s shoulders and face wherever they landed.

The ragged knot of refugees milled, attempting to loom and represent a threat, but Spock found them more pitiable than worrisome. Judging by Kirk’s grimace, he did as well. 

“She was probably giving birth, or ready to start, and her mate just left her behind.” Kirk nudged Spock, tilting his head toward the Klingon woman with a child in her arms. “Sometimes I get why Alexander hates them so much.”

Spock gave him a wary glance. “It is nothing a human male might not have done, given sufficient cause.” He thought of Carol Marcus, and wondered what Kirk had told her of his errand and the reasons for his absence. 

Kirk glanced at him sharply. “Carol wasn’t lying on a biobed giving birth,” he snapped. “And if she were, I’d make sure she got evacuated with everyone else.” He drew his shoulders straight. “Just like I’ll help these innocent people evacuate now. I’m not a fucking monster, Spock.”

A sickening rumble shook the ground, nearly knocking them off their feet. 

“No lies,” the young male blustered, trying to be warrior enough for the whole party. Kirk spared him and his club a wry glance.

“No lies.” Spock stepped between Kirk and the Klingons, shielding him as he got to work on the computer panel. “There is not much time. The volcano will engulf this place soon.” He moved aside, scanning the selection of vehicles, and chose a small vehicle for himself, leaving the largest one for the others. The car he chose would be quite adequate to accommodate himself and Kirk, and should move swiftly while consuming a minimum of fuel due to its light weight.

“Are there others in this town? Bring them. Everyone must go,” he directed, and the young male nodded, barking orders to the sullen adolescents, who scuttled out.

A few more refugees trickled in as Kirk swore at the panel, his progress impeded by the unfamiliar language.

“Get that big bus ready,” Kirk snapped. “I’m almost in.”

Spock heard the click of the lock disengaging from the fuel spout even as Kirk spoke. 

“Distribute fuel. I will guard our vehicle.” Spock pointed to the large bus-like conveyance. 

“Fuel,” he said, and maneuvered the hose from its tangle on the wall. The lead Klingon opened a fuel hatch and Spock began to fill the vehicle’s tank, keeping half an eye on the window to the exterior. Across the street, a building spouted gouts of orange flame, illuminating the returning urchins and three further refugees. 

The fuel trickled out at a maddening slow rate while Klingons filed aboard the hoverbus, glancing anxiously down through the windows at Spock. 

“No lies,” the leader said, inclining his head toward Spock. “Honor to your house, Vulcan.”

Spock raised his hand in the ta’al, saluting them all, then stood back to watch as the young Klingon started the vehicle and guided it, lurching, toward the exit. Spock contrived to raise the door for him, nostrils wrinkling at caustic volcanic gases carried on the hot wind from the crater. The air doubtless contained high concentrations of hydrogen sulfide and carbon monoxide, and likely other damaging trace compounds as well. They must not linger.

“Fuel our vehicle swiftly.” Spock advised Kirk as he retrieved empty fuel cans stored on a shelf in the corner. “There is not much time remaining before the volcanic gases in the air prove incapacitating.” He nearly flinched as a pyroclastic missile shot past, whining through the air and shattering the window of an adjacent structure. 

“We’d better take all the spare tanks we can carry,” Kirk muttered. “Otherwise we’ll have to walk halfway to the city.”

Spock fired at the sight of motion, provoking scuttling sounds and squealing that indicated a pack of targs in panicked retreat.

A roar announced the eruption of a titanic gas bubble in the crater; large missiles pattered down, still glowing red. A roof across the street kindled. The ground bucked under Spock’s feet, heaving and flexing upward.

“Kirk,” Spock shouted. “If we do not depart now, we may not be able to escape.”

“All right, all right.” Kirk screwed the cap onto a can and hustled to stow it. “Get in!”


	54. Chapter 54

The ground spasmed and began to buckle. Structures teetered and toppled, spilling bricks and beams into the street as Kirk careened violently between them, shoving the throttle forward until the engine screamed. 

Spock spied a handful of additional frantic Klingons and targs in the hellish light, all desperately fleeing the new crater on foot, but nothing could be done to aid them now. Their craft could barely accommodate two grown men and a half-dozen fuel cans; it seemed to be a sport vehicle, meant for joyriding. Overloaded as it was, its top velocity was perhaps 80 kilometers per hour. However, it was a welcome shelter from the rain and it skimmed over the mud much faster than booted feet.

Spock untied a bundle Kirk had scavenged from the brothel, examining the foodstuffs and clothing within. He could not read Klingon, but the pictures of the food on the containers all appeared to contain some form of meat. 

“Best I could do. The booze is in another bag. If you won’t eat the meat, you might want to start hitting the bottle.” Kirk held the steering array with his good arm. He stared out into the lashing rain, alert for obstacles on the unbroken plains. Behind them, the orange glow grew stronger, sending the black blotch of their shadow skimming along over the furrows in front of them.

Spock grimaced and dug out a bottle of liquor, which would have little effect on him other than to provide caloric fuel and taste unpleasant. It would serve better than starvation; fortunately, their remaining journey should be short.

The car swerved, catching him off-guard. Spock braced himself, glancing out through the canopy.

“Meteorites incoming,” Kirk snapped. “Close that up and strap in.”

Qo’noS seemed to have wakened to vindictive fury. Blazing streaks of light shot across the sky and plowed divots into the fields; Kirk wove and dodged between them, describing a gut-churning scrawl through the rain of destruction. 

“I’m turning to parallel the descent vector,” Kirk snapped. “That should minimize the need for evasive action. Strap in and keep a watch to the rear!”

Spock rotated his seat and did so. “Three degrees to port!” Kirk yanked at the yoke and a burning streak shot past them, gouging into the land and sending a spray of mud over the windshield.

The meteorites pelted down around them so fast that even a tiny fragment could impact with enough force to obliterate the hovercar-- or it could drill a hole right through one of their heads and still continue on with enough velocity to leave a trough a hundred meters long in the landscape. Kirk’s strategy seemed to be working, until--

“Incoming. Ninety degrees starboard!” Spock snapped. Kirk yanked the car around with a savage whine of servos and gunned the engine. A billion-ton thundering mass roared by overhead and the displaced air sent them spinning-- then the shockwave of the impact struck. The force caused the land to jump and shift under them like fabric whipping in a stiff breeze. 

Kirk lost control of the hovercraft, which went tumbling, bouncing off the ground and turning over and over again. Spock closed his eyes and hung on, composing himself for death-- but the terrible roll slowed. The craft nearly made one additional flip, but it merely neared the apex of the arc and then subsided with a groan of strained metal. 

Spock touched his head gingerly; the unsecured bottle of liquor had struck the parietal region of his head, causing a bruise there before the glass shattered against one of the seats. He hung in the restraints, listing toward the starboard side. 

Kirk was still conscious and unharmed enough to swear bitterly from the driver’s seat. “Goddammit, we’ll never outrun those things on foot.” Flickers and flares still pulsed through the sky, but it seemed the meteorites had paused in pelting this region.

“The large fragment was slowed by atmospheric resistance; most smaller pieces will have outpaced it.” Spock drew himself upright painfully.

“That thing was so big the impact’s likely to open up another volcanic vent,” Kirk muttered, wiping at a trickle of blood on his lip. “We need to see if we can get this thing moving again.”

They crawled out into the battering rain, turning the hovercar back onto its belly and inspecting its damaged fins. Together they managed to bend the worst of the superficial damage back into something approaching trim; fortunately the body of the car was solid and seemed intact, cushioned by the muddy earth they’d struck.

“We won’t be able to fly as fast,” Kirk grunted as they climbed in. “But we should be able to fly if the engine turns over.”

He keyed the panel and after a whine and rattle, the engine ignited. Kirk flashed Spock a beaming smile. “That’s a stroke of luck.” He coaxed the car to one side, easing the battered vehicle free of the mud. Soon they were back in the air, but now the craft developed an alarming shudder whenever its velocity passed forty kilometers per hour.

“We’ll have to take turns driving if we want to keep moving the whole time,” Kirk said. “But if we have enough fuel, we’ll be in _veng wa’DIch_ by nightfall two days from now.” 

“If you persist in identifying random factors as ‘luck,’ it is ‘lucky’ our fuel reserves did not ignite when we crashed,” Spock said, examining the canisters, some of which had shifted despite the restraining straps positioned to separate the cargo bay from the seating. 

“Let’s just hope our luck holds.” 

That seemed to be the last obstacle Qo’noS had in store for them for the night. Spock no longer worried that Kirk might succumb to weariness and fall asleep at the yoke; they were both wide awake, tingling with adrenaline. 

“Those people. I hope they got away.” Kirk stared through the windscreen, his jaw set. 

“We helped as much as we were able,” Spock attempted to soothe the human’s conscience with logic. “We have our own responsibilities to pursue.” 

“What you said back there, about how a human male might have left his wife and child.” Kirk glanced at him, blue eyes a little bloodshot. “It pissed me off when you said it, yeah, but you’re right. A human male might leave his family exactly like that. That’s why we shouldn’t think of them as Klingons, as aliens, as aggressors. They’re _people._ There’s damn little difference between sentient beings when you boil us all down, Spock. Alexander is acting just as bad as any Klingon ever born; he thinks it’s justified. You and I will kill if that’s what it takes to get Bones back; we believe it’s right. We all think we’re the heroes of our own stories, no matter what we do in them.” 

Kirk stared straight at Spock for longer than Spock deemed safe despite the flat fields.

“Here’s what Christopher Pike knows that Alexander Marcus doesn’t, Spock: I was on Tarsus IV when the crops failed. I was one of the few who survived Kodos’s rationing purges. He approved of me because I was blond, blue-eyed, young, and strong.” Kirk’s face hardened and he turned back toward the fields, driving for a few minutes in silence as Spock considered the new information.

“I’ve got no love for Khan and his eugenic enhancements, and I’ve got no tolerance for authority figures who kill because they think a select few should have more rights and more value than others.” Kirk’s voice turned cold and hard. “So if you need a reason to trust me, chew on that.”

_Survivor’s guilt drives him._ Spock did not voice his thought, though the new information greatly clarified Pike’s logic in selecting Kirk as his agent. 

The silence stretched between them until it moved beyond discomfort and became acceptance, of a sort.

*****

Two days later, running on fumes, they coasted off the plains and into the foothills only a few hours before nightfall. _Veng wa’DIch_ sprawled amidst the peaks in front of them, bracketed by a series of picturesque cliffs and waterfalls, apparently located atop the remains of a gigantic volcanic crater. 

Smoke rose from the city where several of the taller structures had buckled and collapsed, indicating seismic activity; in ditches and pathways not far away, a thin trickle of refugees picked their way downward, headed out of the mountains, slowly fleeing the imperiled city. Spock wondered where they hoped to go; there was no safe haven to be had on Qo’noS. 

Geysers bubbled up from the surrounding hills and steam rose from heated pools; the stench of sulfur hung in the rain-washed air. At least the clouds had finally receded, though more loomed on the horizon, threatening to converge when least wanted.

Spock set the ship down behind a knoll, concealing it as well as he could. The engine coughed and sputtered as the last of the fuel was consumed. 

“There’s a military installation and shipyard about ten klicks from here.” Kirk wielded their single tricorder with expert skill. “We should head in that direction; it’s our best hope for highjacking a ship.”

“You insist in pursuing your ill-advised plan?”

“I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _veng wa’DIch_ : First City


	55. Chapter 55

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Jim tells a sexually explicit story in this chapter. NSFW

Kirk climbed out of the pilot’s seat and began rummaging through the remains of their supplies, discarding used food containers and unnecessary items, then selecting an outfit from the clothing he’d stolen. 

Spock raised a brow as Kirk changed into the sleek leather clothing, folding and packing his previous outfit. He had chosen clothing made for a female-- or perhaps an adolescent male, young enough to appear androgynous. It had been made for someone perhaps a size smaller than Kirk and thus appeared to be painted on. Low-slung breeches, platform boots, and a sleeveless shirt of tight, stretchy fabric seemed provocative enough on their own, but then Kirk knelt down and pulled out a mirror and a case of cosmetics and began to paint his face, displaying disconcerting skill in the endeavor.

Objectively, he was perhaps the most alluring human being Spock had ever beheld: in the absolute prime of his youth, unscarred, sleek, and perfect, not a spare ounce of flesh on him, his muscles taut and honed, his profile absolute perfection-- now dramatized by the makeup, his eyes sultry and his lips red.

Spock allowed himself a slight frown and put on the clothing Kirk had chosen for him, glad that it represented rather less flamboyant attire. His breeches were a bit loose, made of stiff brocade, and a tailored tunic covered his chest. His cloak had the armored shoulders one would expect in a Klingon garment, making his body appear broader and more intimidating, and its long fall was made of soft oiled silk, falling just to his ankles. He looked unsatisfactory, if rather more respectable than Kirk, whose spine seemed to have unjointed itself, taking on a sinuous motion.

“I don’t suppose you’ve ever met a pimp.” Kirk eyed him with doubt. “Or even seen one on holovision.”

“A pimp is a man who controls prostitutes and arranges clients for them, taking part of their earnings in return,” Spock said, a statement that encapsulated his entire knowledge of the profession.

“They’re usually pretty sleazy. Can you do sleaze?” Kirk combed a sharp-scented gel through his hair, using his fingers. 

“I do not believe so.”

“Then we’ll have to settle for ‘intimidating.’ That’ll be a hard sell with Klingons. Maybe you should pretend you’re a Romulan.” 

“I can accommodate that request more effectively than I can aspire to portray ‘sleaze,’” Spock acknowledged. 

“Good. Be a bit rough with me if you have to; that’ll make it more believable. And be possessive. Hands-on. Grabby. You know, _fondle the goods._ Usually pimps sample their own wares; your body language should say you do, too. You’ll need to haggle over price when you sell me. Stop that,” he snapped when Spock drew breath to protest. “We’ve got to get on board a bird of prey if we’re going to highjack it. They’re not actually going to get what they paid for.” He scowled. “I can handle myself; the risk is my responsibility.”

Picturing Kirk, a single fragile human, trapped amidst a group of sexually aggressive Klingons, Spock was not reassured. However, he had no better suggestions, so he let it pass.

Kirk continued his instructions. “On this world, a human whore is a novelty. The minimums you should agree to are three thousand Federation credits for oral, five thousand for anal. All night should be eight. If I’m to be damaged, that’s ten. Multiple partners is more depending on how many; hold out for two or three thousand per john. Ensure I’m not to be excessively damaged-- specify it can’t go any farther than a dermal regenerator can handle.” He tossed Spock his phaser, his composure absolute… and quite enviable. 

Spock recoiled from both the casual recitation of Kirk’s value and the acts he described. Did he truly value himself so little that he could sacrifice both dignity and safety in such a casual way? “I do not like this plan.”

“You can’t look disgusted like that. You have to look _greedy_.” Kirk eyed him, worried. “Look, I’m not thrilled about it either, if that helps. It’s a means to an end, that’s all.” He paused. “Your concern for my well-being is… noted.” He met Spock’s gaze and his lips curled in a hesitant smile; Spock found himself strangely comforted. 

Kirk put away the cosmetics and straightened, his disguise complete. “C’mon. Let’s get moving.”

Volcanic features rendered the going treacherous; in places the ground was only a thin crust of minerals over boiling water, and they had to scan constantly for secure footing as they walked.

“Putting a city directly on top of an active super-volcano isn’t a great strategy over the long-term, but it sure does a lot to discourage invading armies,” Kirk observed. “And us.” He glared up at the horizon. “At least those mountains are between us and about half the sky. They’ll shield us from some of the meteorites.” He poked at the ground. “I’d hoped we’d make it to the shipyards by now, but we’ll have to sleep on our plan for another night. These steam vents are warm. We should bed down nearby.”

They chose a campsite under a recessed cliffside that would block even more of the smaller meteorites. Spock drank a quarter of a bottle of their dwindling store of alcohol while Kirk consumed a can of unidentifiable meat-hash, then they huddled down under Spock’s cloak, glad of the unusually warm soil underneath. 

Kirk’s clothing in particular was inadequate to withstand the lowered temperature, and Spock became conscious of the human gradually crowding closer as he slept, his mind full of oddly peaceful dreams. Spock resolved himself to endure the contact, and in truth it was not entirely unpleasant. It had been a long time since he had slept entwined with Leonard, and he’d missed the company of a warm body in his bed.

Trusting in the tricorder to give alarm if any threats drew near, he willed himself to sleep.

In his dream, Spock was with Leonard, but something wasn’t right. He felt odd, as if he had been drugged; the scene seemed oddly murky, hazy around the edges. And Leonard had never been so aggressive-- not that he disliked it; it felt good. Incredible. Leonard touching him, Leonard taking him, Leonard’s exultant laughter, his strong hands, his masculine organ inside Spock, striking a location that nearly blinded him with pleasure… but it wasn’t right. From the sound of his own voice to the swing of his balls--

Spock blinked awake, struggling his way out of James Kirk’s dream. Kirk sighed, nestling back against him, still soaked in the throes of a dream so vivid, so powerful and detailed that it could only be a memory.

Spock shoved him away with sudden rage. 

Breaking contact shattered the meld, but it did nothing to abate either the lust or the fury that burned through Spock, filling him with the craving to rend and tear; the savage need to shatter bone. His fists clenched, knuckles white, and he surged to his feet and stalked away from Kirk, glaring holes in the very rocks, his whole body shaking as he struggled for control.

Kirk blinked himself awake, confused, then hissed a breath as his mind connected his dream to Spock’s behavior.

“Your dream. It was of a memory.” Spock’s voice grated thickly in his throat. 

“Yeah.” Kirk didn’t venture a denial, sitting up. “Yeah, it was.”

“You will tell me the circumstances of your sexual relationship with Leonard. The times. The places. The reasons it happened. How often.” Spock’s voice could have carved rock, each word precise and deadly.

“It only happened once. The day we enrolled as cadets.” For a wonder, Kirk didn’t try to evade the question; perhaps he could tell how close Spock hovered at the edge of explosive fury. “Pike recruited me while he was leading a field excursion to the Iowa shipyard. When it was over, he had to take his cadets and supervising officers back to their stations. The transporter systems were down for maintenance, so Bones took six different shuttles that day-- up to spacedock, out to the Enterprise, back to spacedock, over to Luna station, back to spacedock, then down to ’Frisco. He hated every second of the flying; it terrified him. He had a bunch of little flasks of booze stashed in his pockets, and he got more while we were in the dock. Every time he had to strap in and go through a launch, he’d get lit up so he could take it.” Kirk paused, folding his legs over one another into something approximating the lotus and dragging a blanket over his exposed shoulders. 

“I met Bones for the first time right before the initial launch; they dragged him out of the lavatory where he was hiding and forced him to sit with the cadets in the hold. There was an empty seat next to me and he took it. He was a wreck: drunk as a lord, so crazy with fear I could smell it on him. Ranting and raving about blood boiling and eyeballs bleeding. God!” Kirk actually chuckled at the memory. “We were the group oddballs; neither of us even had uniforms yet. Everybody else had already been at the academy for at least a year. They’d had their vocational tests, picked their majors, given their oaths, had the haircuts, the roommate assignments, all of it. We got thrown together over and over because we hadn’t. I think we’d have stayed together anyway.”

Kirk paused, staring at Spock’s fists, which were clenched and shaking. Kirk gave him a wary glance but continued.

“The lieutenant finally got wise and confiscated his flasks on the way down from spacedock, but by then it was way too late. By the time they put us down at the academy in San Francisco, I was just about carrying him around. I think they put us in the same room that night just to punish us; we both had shitty attitudes and smelled like a brewery because he’d been giving me nips out of his flasks all day, so I wasn’t exactly sober myself. I’d spent the whole day flirting like hell with him-- fuck, who _wouldn’t_ want him? Even you, Spock. Even you.” 

Kirk’s voice grew quiet. “Bones was gorgeous-- wild-eyed, covered with stubble, wearing the ugliest goddamn sweater and vest I ever saw in my life. I stole the thing later and got rid of it myself, not gonna lie.” He sounded wistful. 

“Cease your delays.” Spock did not recognize his own voice. “Tell me.”

“You’re a jealous sonofabitch.” Kirk’s voice had no sympathy in it; instead, he sounded fiercely defensive. “But since you insist… when we got to the room and I sat down, I lay back and grinned at him and opened my arms. He fell down on his knees between my thighs and went to town on me-- no speeches, no negotiations. He just knew what I wanted and got right down to it. It was unbelievable.” He paused as Spock turned to stare at him. 

Spock bit his lip so hard that he tasted blood. Kirk sat where he was, turning his head to gaze off into space, not paying Spock much attention as he continued. “He gives fucking good head. Maybe you already know. I came so hard I thought I was gonna die.” Kirk tilted his head forward. Corvix had risen, a ruddy golden disc in the sky, and the bright moonlight caught in his lashes, gilding them, sliding along the velvet ridge of his cheekbone. 

“When he was through, he got up, wiped his mouth, and grinned at me, wicked and smug. He looked like a fallen angel. Incredible. I let him turn me over and put me on my knees so he could fuck me raw.” Kirk folded his arms around his legs, his voice very quiet. “I’ve never let any other guy do that with me, you know. Just Bones. He was so goddam drunk I don’t think he even remembers it.” 

Spock heard himself make an anguished noise; his mouth tasted of bile. 

Kirk ignored him, still speaking, picking at a rough spot in the hem of his shirt. “It was good.” He didn’t look up at Spock again. “He didn’t have whiskey dick, but he was fucked up enough that he really had to work at it before he could come. He went _forever._ I was limp as a dishrag when he started, and it hurt like hell, but then… then it was _good_ , and then it was _better_ , and then, _holy shit._ He fucked me till I saw stars, till I begged and pleaded and cried, till I shot my brains out all over again. Till all I could do was lie there with my cheek rubbing on the coverlet and whimper while he plowed me with that gorgeous fucking dick of his, holding me up with those damn beautiful hands, swearing like a sailor, sweat all over him, till he came inside me and pulled out and passed out on the bed, and I collapsed next to him with his come leaking out of my ass and knew I was in love. With a wild-eyed, foul-mouthed, drunken lunatic I’d just met. Jesus _Christ.”_

Spock bit through the skin of his lip and blood flooded his mouth; his vision swam, emerald with fury. 

“You haven’t done that with him yet, have you.” The faintest note of victory invaded Kirk’s voice. Spock advanced without thought, gliding forward on panther-smooth feet. Kirk’s skin was cool under his hand and Kirk’s pulse beat fast in his throat. An instant of motion, a flicker of strength, and Kirk hung against the cliff face, dangling from Spock’s fist, blue eyes snapping, unafraid. “Can’t blame me for that. The two of you danced around each other like you had till the end of fucking time. Not my fault.” 

Kirk’s eyes dared him, courting destruction, a demon of self-loathing capering in their crystalline depths. “You wanna know what _is_ my fault? I ran from him, Spock, and that’s the fucking truth. I told myself it was because I had Pike’s mission to take care of, because I couldn’t afford to get that close to anybody, and it’s true, but I was scared shitless, too. Never saw myself falling so hard for a guy; it totally fucked up my self-image. Feeling so much for this paranoid, crazy man I barely knew… this guy I was stuck rooming with for the next three or four years… I didn’t know how to deal with that.” 

Kirk laughed without humor. “So I got my ass out of that bed before he woke up and cleaned myself up and got dressed and went out and fucked every girl I could get my hands on, and I tried to tell myself he was just a friend who might’ve been a fuckbuddy if I’d wanted him. There must’ve been twenty girls that first month alone. Bones decided I was a complete slut. Of course he’s right. I’m good enough to be his best friend, like a little brother to him, but not his lover. He never let me touch him after that. It never happened again.”

Spock did not release Kirk; his whole body jangled, wire-taut, rage and lust surging through him in electric pulses. Kirk’s eyes were wild, burning with the blue flame of a welding torch, his face flushing deep red with blood. He struggled for breath, his fingers prying uselessly at Spock’s grasp on his throat.

“So what are you gonna do? Kill me? Kiss me? Turn me over and try to fuck him right out of me?” His tongue flickered out and slicked his lips. “You’re all I have left of him right now. I actually think I’d let you.”

Spock dropped Kirk abruptly and whirled away, shuddering with need to do all those things at once. _I am in control of my emotions._ He bludgeoned away at the ravening beast inside him-- chanting the mantra over and over, furious, desperate. _I will not betray Leonard as Jocelyn did._ That worked better; he drew a deep breath and straightened, squaring his shoulders, and tugged down his tunic, setting himself to rights.

Kirk laughed, harsh through his bruised throat. “Yeah, I’m not good enough for you either, I see. Not that I blame you-- you’re holding out for him. I would, too, if I were you.”

“Be silent, James.” The words scraped their way between Spock’s teeth, tasting of blood. “You have said enough.” 

The tricorder chose that moment to bleat a warning.


	56. Chapter 56

“Klingons,” Kirk snapped, suddenly all business again. “Get over here.” He hurried back to their bedding and lay down.

His voice was so confident that Spock obeyed without thinking, only balking when Kirk dragged him back down on the ground and scooted close. “Sst,” Kirk hissed when he tried to draw back, and he thrust his buttocks against Spock’s groin, squirming. He began to utter obscene sounds, writhing and gasping.

Footsteps rang out, then guttural laughter greeted the spectacle. The moonlight gleamed off polished metal armor and dark waving hair; four Klingons approached with weapons drawn. They spoke in Klingon but, receiving no answer, tried again in Standard.

“What’s this, a tryst?”

“My partner and I are lost,” Jim drew away from Spock and raised himself to his knees, smoothing his shirt. His voice took on a coquettish, flirtatious tone. “Our hovercar ran out of gas. We were trying to find the military base. We have business there.”

“A human?” One of the Klingons stepped forward, snapping a light on and shining it in Kirk’s eyes. Catcalls and whistles went up as Kirk batted his lashes against the light, raising his empty hands palm-out. 

“A human whore!” 

“I prefer the term ‘sex worker,’” Kirk simpered, leaving his lips parted. Enough of the makeup remained to make them look unusually lush and inviting. “But yes. That’s our business.”

“He is available for a reasonable fee.” Spock sat up. “James.” He snapped his fingers, and Kirk pulled back to fawn against his side. 

“Let’s have a free sample, lads.” One of the Klingons bared his teeth, stepping forward. “See if he’s worth passing on to the others!”

“That is not acceptable,” Spock said, twitching his arm from behind Kirk to reveal his phaser, which he trained on the leader’s genitals. “Take another step and you will never again sire a child on your mate.”

Curses rang out and metal blades scraped on sheaths; Kirk spoke up, self-assured.

“Let’s make a wager, gentlemen, on the field of honor. My associate will duel your leader with the mek'leth. He wins? You take us to the base. Your leader wins?” He grinned, lowering his chin and looking up through his lashes. “I’ll blow you all for free, right here.”

Spock could have groaned. He was hardly an expert with the weapon in question, yet he understood Kirk’s intent to de-escalate the situation-- and his resolve to carry through on the terms of the wager, should Spock lose.

Such an outcome was distasteful in the extreme and would be a burden on his conscience. Spock preferred to win.

Spock drew out the mek'leth, provoking hoots of derision and challenge from the patrol. Yet he had trained in combat, and as a Vulcan, his training had included a variety of edged weapons.

The Klingon leader scowled at him as he took his stance, stepping forward to draw his own blade. 

Spock began to circle, taking care on the uncertain ground. Volcanic vents bubbled forth in random spots and rising steam obscured the view of his surroundings. The Klingon smiled, baring sharp teeth, not bothering to look down. Spock could not afford the luxury.

He raised his blade, preparing for attack, and darted aside as the first lunge came. Their blades made no contact so the assembled warriors hooted with derision at his cowardice. 

The Klingon leader reversed swiftly, his blade diving for Spock’s back. He sidestepped again, this time locking the Klingon’s arm with his own. Snarling, the warrior attempted to break the hold, jockeying to hook an ankle behind Spock’s. After a few efforts he succeeded and they both fell onto the ground-- which was hot under Spock’s left shoulder, warning of a mud-pot adjacent to his head. 

Spock flexed his muscles in a surge of power and rolled them away from the scorching heat, bringing an elbow to bear against the Klingon’s belly as they moved, but it had little effect. They came up fighting, the Klingon’s naked blade singing through the air millimeters from his ear. He glimpsed Kirk watching, anxiety twisting his face, then lost sight of him. He brought the hilt of his blade against the Klingon’s jaw, battering him aside. The Klingon snarled, rolling them, and butted his bony forehead against Spock’s, stunning him.

Spock barely managed to dodge the next slash of the mek’leth, shaking his head to clear his mind, and backpedaled, casting a rapid glance over his shoulder to choose his path. 

He must attack; if he remained on the defensive, the Klingon would continue prodding at him until he made a mistake. 

Spock feinted to the right but brought his left hand up sharply, the blade of his palm striking at the Klingon’s throat. He gasped, choking, and Spock drove his elbow into the back of the warrior’s neck, forcing him to one knee. But he did not injure the Klingon badly enough to disorient him; instead the warrior drove his blade up and forward, slicing Spock’s tunic and drawing a line of fire across the skin of his belly.

Superficial damage only, yet it was a warning. He danced away, skirting a lake of gray ooze that smelled of sulfur and earth, keeping its width between him and the leader as he pondered his next attack. 

Hoots of _“bIHnuch!”_ taunted him, and he saw a warrior step close to Kirk, who bared his teeth, preparing to fight. If the duel devolved into a skirmish of underlings, its purpose would be wasted.

The edge of the mud pot crumbled under Spock’s heel; he danced away and charged back toward the lead warrior, their blades meeting with a flash of sparks. Clash after clash followed as Spock prevented the leader from using cunning and trickery by maintaining a furious barrage of strikes. If he were accustomed to Vulcan gravity, he would have had the advantage of tiring his opponent, but he had become acclimated to Earth’s lesser gravity, so he would tire first. Nevertheless, he might disorient the Klingon enough to--

The warrior’s heel slipped and his foot dipped into a boiling pot; he hissed and jerked it out again, stumbling. A spatter of heated mud stung Spock’s face; the warriors catcalled again. 

“I will leave you roasted on the field of honor, food for targs!”

“You will have to kill me first,” Spock said, remaining calm. He brought the mek’leth down in a swift arc, its blade flashing, and locked it with the other, twisting hard. Metal rang and scraped; he kept up the pressure, using the advantage of his height to force the Klingon’s arm wide. If he had been sure of his weapon, he would have tried to break his opponent’s blade, but he feared he might only succeed in destroying his own. Instead, he and the leader danced in a wide circle as he pushed his advantage, preventing disengagement, and brought his own foot to bear, tripping the warrior, who fell full length.

A seasoned veteran of combat, the Klingon had not struck the ground before his legs lashed out, scissoring around Spock’s ankles, and he too fell. 

“Damn it, stop playing around,” Kirk shouted, presumably by way of encouragement. He was dancing on the balls of his feet, seeming half-oblivious to the Klingons who menaced him, ready to take their forfeit should Spock be defeated. 

Spock gritted his teeth and rolled back to his feet painfully. He retreated once more, feeling the ground yield dangerously under his feet, the volcanic land turning treacherous on him once more. He estimated his weight considerably less than that of the Klingon leader, who was bulky and stout and wore a great deal of metal armor that Spock did not. A crust that would hold him might not support his opponent, who seemed to know it, testing the ground before him with one boot as he advanced. 

Spock felt telltale quivering under his heels and did not dare retreat further. Bubbling and clanking sounds warned of subterranean activity. Perhaps he stood at the lip of a geyser. If so, boiling water might erupt at any moment, scalding him. 

He glanced aside, checking the footing elsewhere; runnels of water crisscrossed the ground, warning of imminent eruption. Spock flung himself forward as the hiss at his heels grew angry, feeling steam billow around him, obscuring his vision. He exploded from the cloud with his blade upright and brought it around in a vicious arc, shoving the Klingon’s sword arm away, and they went down with Spock’s knee centered in the man’s solar plexus, knocking the wind from him.

Scalding water rained down over them both, but Spock did not flinch from it. He held his blade at the Klingon’s throat; no blood had been drawn. To leave the fight thus would dishonor his opponent greatly.

Spock turned the blade slightly and drew a razor-thin cut along the cord of the Klingon’s throat. Purple fluid welled, staining his weapon. They hung fast, unmoving, as Spock waited to discover whether the soldier would concede or force him to commit further violence.

“He is only a whore,” the Klingon said before turning his head and spitting to one side. The spittle landed on hot rocks and hissed, audible as the spray of the geyser receded. “I yield the field to you, Romulan. He is not worth my life.”

Spock rose to his feet and stepped back, adrenaline singing through his veins, the mark of his boot on the fallen leader’s chest. He bared his teeth in an instinctive snarl and caught Kirk against him with only a fleeting thought for their cover. The human lay hot and yielding against his side, staring down at his fallen foe, Spock’s hard-won spoils on the field of battle. His, by terms of the challenge. 

The bloodlust of the ancients sang in him while the others looked on; what he did was his right, fitting-- and the need to maintain their cover made it permissible. He turned the human in his arms, looking into startled, wide blue eyes, and took Kirk’s mouth harshly, claiming the prize of his victory.

Kirk made a startled sound but did not resist, and Spock sensed approval in him at this thorough establishment of their cover-- but he did not care what Kirk thought as he stroked his tongue into human heat, only a fading part of him crying its guilt over Leonard. Forbidden fruit tasted sweet and asserting dominance over this maddening firebrand soul tasted even sweeter. Kirk squirmed against him provocatively, opening his mouth to welcome Spock inside.

Spock made himself pull back, hearing laughter and catcalls from the onlookers. Kirk blinked up at him, breathing through parted lips, eyes anything but tame, and his tongue darted out, licking the taste of Spock off his lips. He did not pull away, his body pressed lasciviously tight against Spock’s, his lips curving up into a mocking smile. 

Unable to bear the regard of those triumphant, knowing eyes, Spock leaned in again, slanting his mouth over Kirk’s, and bit that lush lower lip, feeling it give and tear between his teeth-- marking Kirk, punishing him. The Klingons went mad with approval, shouts of _“Qapla’!”_ ringing among the cliffs as he sealed his victory to their unqualified approval. 

He dropped Kirk abruptly, stepping away and letting him support himself. He approved of Kirk’s faltering step as the human supported his own weight again and of the slow deliberation as he raised his arm to wipe his wrist over his mouth, cleaning away a trickle of blood. He was not badly hurt, but his lip would swell and bear the marks of Spock’s teeth for several days.

“Do not presume again to issue a challenge on my behalf, or I will let them all have you as they will,” Spock growled between clenched teeth.

The leader hauled himself to his feet, casting Spock a sour look. 

“Well-fought, Romulan.” He dusted himself off and re-sheathed his knife. “Come. We will escort you to the base.”

Spock noted, not without satisfaction, that Kirk was finding it rather difficult to walk in his skin-tight pants with an erection. He turned away when the human glanced at him, and he busied himself dusting his own garments and sheathing his blade. _I am sorry, Leonard._ Guilt surged suddenly, not unexpected. Spock tried to tell himself it had been done to establish and preserve their cover and not because James Kirk held any allure for him.

And even if he did… perhaps Spock could not be condemned to the utmost; Kirk was a temptation even Leonard had been moved to sample. But Spock’s failure was nonetheless severe, a matter for deep shame and extensive meditation-- if he ever again had time to do so.

Holding himself stiffly, he snapped his fingers. “Attend, James.” He did not look back to ensure that Kirk followed as the Klingons led them through the obstacle course of volcanic springs. He could hear Kirk sauntering along near behind him, all of them taking care to step in the same tracks. Nobody wanted to be plunged suddenly into boiling sulfuric acid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _bIHnuch!:_ Coward  
>  _Qapla’:_ Success


	57. Chapter 57

“I am Lieutenant Khodat,” the leader told Spock, a little sullen. “Of house D’Jok.” It was a courtesy, possibly indicating he felt a debt to Spock for not killing him.

“I will remember my honorable adversary,” Spock replied, which seemed to satisfy the Klingon. He set a punishing pace once they cleared the dangerous area, setting out toward the west via a ravine showing signs of erosion from regular torrential flooding. Multicolored quartz crystals and the long straight lines of crystalline intrusions glimmered in its dark walls, the soft hues tempting Spock to reach out and touch. The Klingons muttered among themselves, occasionally breaking into a line or two of song, but he could not follow their dialect, so he remained silent and listened to the syncopated strike of Kirk’s boots on the rocks at his heels.

His lapse of control had begun the first night in the desert; looking back, he could perceive that now. His first impulse to draw Kirk, to capture the silvery moonlight on his handsome face… that had represented the thin end of the wedge. 

What if Kirk had come to model in his drawing class rather than McCoy? He was a beautiful man, completely conscious of his charms, bold and seductive. Would Spock’s response have been the same as it had been to McCoy’s more modest self-presentation? Had he been so isolated, so eager to find an alternative to T’Pring, that he would have reached out to anyone attractive, just as Solket seemed prepared to do? 

He stumbled on the raised edge of a bubbling mud-pot and Kirk’s left hand shot out, catching his upper arm to steady him. Spock glanced back. “Your assistance is appreciated,” he said without inflection, reclaiming his arm and continuing forward, refusing to allow Kirk any glimpse of his inner turmoil. 

Physical attraction need not be a threat to his relationship with Leonard as long as Spock did not act upon it. Now that he was aware of the danger, it could be avoided.

He glanced back at Kirk, who kept his eyes fixed on the ground, picking his path with care. The last few days had completely altered the way Spock looked at the human on nearly every possible level. He hardly knew how to integrate the many facets he had seen into a cohesive picture of the man, possibly because doing so would not yet provide an accurate impression. There was surely more to be seen.

They crested a low rise and looked down into a bowl-shaped volcanic crater: the Klingon military base, its squat buildings and barracks tucked next to the lip of the crater, a few laggard ships scattered on the flat lava field at its middle. Hardly any ships were planetside, and the few Klingons visible moved in haste, scuttling about with no sign of military order. Several impact scars gouged the surface of the landing field, courtesy of debris from Praxis, and one building had been demolished. Smoke still rose from the rubble there, unheeded by the Klingons who came and went around it.

The patrol led the way down through a narrow, broken crevice in the crater’s lip, and Spock noticed Kirk struggling; his injured shoulder didn’t want to bear any weight, and he had lost part of his range of motion in the joint. Perhaps if they were lucky, they could obtain treatment for him below.

Medical care would cost money they did not have; all they had to barter was Kirk’s services. Spock winced at the idea, reluctant to allow such a thing to happen under his admittedly nominal command. 

He assisted Kirk as they neared the bottom, helping ease him down the last incline. Hs boots slipped on the loose and crumbling stone, and Spock lowered him to the floor of the crater by his good arm, then jumped down on his own. 

The base looked even more chaotic from this level, lights flashing in windows and shouts audible, echoing in tunnels bored back into the stone of the crater wall. Most of the personnel appeared to have taken shelter there. A complete breakdown of military order appeared to be in process.

“Where is your medical facility?” Spock inquired of the leader he had defeated. 

“Nobody home,” Khodat grunted, surly, but he gestured toward a small hut a few rows over. 

“My companion requires treatment.”

“The leader did not appear to care; he tilted his head, listening to distant shouting. Alarmed and barking a curse, he merely abandoned Spock and Kirk, gesturing for his men to accompany him.

A stroke of luck. 

“Come along,” Spock told Kirk, steering for the indicated building, which was indeed abandoned. However, it had not been emptied, not even by looters amidst the apparent breakdown of order in the base, and Spock began to investigate the supplies, wishing for Leonard’s superior skill and informed guidance. 

“Just get me a pain hypo,” Kirk muttered. Both his shoulder and his lip were doubtless troublesome.

“There is no guarantee a Klingon anesthetic will be tolerated by, or will even work on, your human physiology,” Spock demurred. He had little experience with the Klingon language, and could not begin to read the labels on the supplies he uncovered-- but a box with familiar lettering caught his eye, so he dragged it out to have a better look.

“That’s Federation stuff,” Kirk mumbled, brushing a layer of dust off the label. “Starfleet issue.”

“The capture and looting of Federation ships is a popular activity among the Klingon fleet,” Spock observed. There were Federation drugs inside the box-- and a number of them _were_ opiates, powerful ones. “Perhaps there is useful equipment, as well.” Spock continued to dig, and was rewarded when he found a crate with various tools inside: a protoplaser, a dermal regenerator, laser scalpels, and a number of items he had no name for. 

“Use that thing. That’s what Bones uses on me if I get punched in a fight.” Kirk nudged at the protoplaser.

“I suspect that at this juncture, your shoulder requires considerable surgical intervention for complete recovery,” Spock hedged.

“Yeah, and it’s not getting it unless you’ve got a surgeon in your pocket. So just patch me up as well as you can and let’s get the hell out of here before somebody official wanders in and starts asking questions!”

Spock attempted to look confident as he passed the instrument back and forth across the damaged shoulder, but his only measure of success was the expression on Kirk’s face. He seemed relieved, so perhaps Spock was not failing entirely in his goal.

When the readout on the instrument stopped changing with each pass, Spock turned it off and injected a painkiller, watching Kirk wince as the hypospray delivered the dose, though the small sting must have hurt far less than the ache of the injured joint.

Spock tended his own cut next, running the protoplaser across his belly. He did not offer to heal Kirk’s bitten lip, and strangely, Kirk did not request his assistance, leaving it as it was. Perhaps he believed it would make him more enticing to his Klingon prey.

“Let’s take as much of this fucking stuff as we can carry, starting with that thing in your hand.” Kirk started to shovel medicines into a bag.

Spock agreed despite the risk of being stopped and accused of thievery; there seemed to be little order remaining here. He wondered where the Klingon fleet had gone and what they were doing as he and Kirk packed the bag with all the instruments and drugs they deemed useful before making a hasty departure. A spray of meteors flashed by overhead, making sonic booms that rattled the entire base. Metal groaned as the shockwave of their passage boomed across the land. 

“I recommend against seeking out soldiers in the fortified areas,” Spock said. “We should approach a ship directly and steal it if it is unoccupied-- or if it is, we will attempt to bargain our way aboard.” He pointed to the nearest one. Very small for a bird of prey, its running lights were illuminated. It appeared to be whole and in good repair, unlike a number of the ships that stood derelict and abandoned on the airfield.

Kirk nodded, his jaw tightening; the narrow line of his lips indicated he didn’t look forward to executing his plan, but he did not flinch away, setting out with Spock toward the edge of the airfield.

“It’s good that’s a small ship. I don’t think the two of us can fly one of the big warbirds. Even the little ones require a skeleton crew of six.” He scowled. “We might be able to automate enough systems to manage it, if we can figure out how to get the damn thing off the ground.”

“Perhaps a prisoner would be willing to divulge that information, if subjected to sufficient threat.”

“Klingons don’t do capitulation. It’s not part of their code of honor.”

Spock drew himself upright with dignity. Surely Pike’s injunction could not stretch so far as this.

“Then I will perform a meld to acquire the information.” He said it simply, hoping the seriousness of what he proposed would fail to register on Kirk-- but the blue eyes slid toward him, weighing him with surprise-- and a touch of fear, and more than a little respect.

“You mean you’ll force your way into somebody’s mind and just take what you want.”

Spock kept his eyes fixed on the small ship, refusing to betray weakness. “I will, at need.”

Kirk whistled. “Damn. You’re a dangerous fucker, aren’t you?”

Spock ignored him; he had spied a lone sentry standing by the landing gear, guarding the ship’s entry hatch. “I believe our chosen vessel has a crew aboard.”

“Good,” Kirk said, sarcasm heavy in his voice. “Then we won’t have to detour to find somebody for you to interrogate.”

Spock winced. That was a rather mild word for what he had resolved to do. But he would do it, for Leonard’s sake… and also for James Kirk’s, so he would not be forced to submit his body to the Klingons’ lust.

Many desperate acts could be justified in times of war. Spock grimaced, acknowledging that thus far, Marcus was achieving his goal of destroying peace.


	58. Chapter 58

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: chapter contains threats of sexual violence and coercion. It also contains a pretty brutal fire-fight.

The sentry stepped forward, leveling a disruptor at them, and barked a query. Kirk immediately turned lascivious-- a transformation that occurred in the blink of an eye, baffling Spock exceedingly; it was as if one moment Kirk was a normal man, and then the next he smoldered, every line of him suggestive, his expression and his very motions an eloquent invitation. 

“Hello, captain.” He actually batted his lashes, looking up through them at the surly warrior-- assigning him a rank considerably above anything such a lazy specimen was ever likely to attain. “Nice ship.”

Spock was unsure how a polite compliment to a spacecraft could contrive to sound so much like an obscene suggestion, but Kirk achieved the effect without apparent effort. The Klingon guard blinked down at him, startled, but the disruptor wavered, its barrel sagging toward the ground as the guard’s eyes roved over Kirk.

“Human,” the Klingon said, barely intelligible through his harsh accent.

Kirk smiled seductively in response. Spock decided it was time to intervene. 

“His services are available for a small fee,” he stated, speaking slowly and clearly. The guard blinked at him, eyes narrowing, and Spock sincerely hoped they wouldn’t have to fight all the Klingons they met in order to convince them that payment wasn’t optional. “Eight thousand,” Spock said, making an extremely suggestive gesture, hoping the number would be understood even if nothing else had been. 

The Klingon scowled, shaking his head. His long, dark hair flew. “Two thousand.”

“One thousand for a handjob,” Kirk responded, and took his example from Spock, making an illustrative gesture. He made a _moue_ , pushing his lips forward in a tantalizing little pout. 

A shout echoed hollowly from within the ship and another crewman poked his head out, calling a harsh query down, then laughing uproariously, shouting behind him for more of his companions. 

The Klingons emerged in ones and twos, gazing down with what Spock judged was malevolent interest before joining the group prodding and poking at Kirk as if he were already bought and paid for. Spock rapidly judged things were getting out of hand and dragged Kirk back to his side, scowling. “No bargain has been struck. You will not sample him without paying.”

One of the ranking officers sneered at him. “You want off Qo’noS.” He gestured to the sky. “All want to leave Qo’noS. No money-- exchange him for passage, Romulan!”

Spock pretended to consider the offer, ignoring Jim insistently pinching his back to insist that he say yes.

“Very well. That is an acceptable bargain. But you will not damage him.” The demand was very thin, and the Klingons knew it, leering and chuckling among themselves. “On your honor!” Spock insisted.

“Ship,” the officer said, indicating the hatch with a sweep of his thick, stubby finger. “Go.”

Spock considered pointing out that the Klingon code of honor applied only to fellow Klingons, and that this group doubtless meant to damage Jim, but being invited aboard the ship so rapidly was more than they had dared hope for. Therefore he remained silent, following as Kirk obeyed the directive. The guard fell in behind them, abandoning his post; clearly only the least reliable soldiers had been left behind in the mobilization of the army after the destruction of Praxis.

Kirk simpered, letting one of the Klingons seize him, pushing him against the wall and eyeing him up with apparent appreciation. Hands fell on him; Spock became aware of the barrel of the guard’s disruptor hovering near the nape of his neck. 

“We take _you_ later, Romulan!” the Klingon laughed, the expanding cloud of his foul breath making Spock’s nose twitch. He pulled the hatch shut behind them. “Or we put you both out of the air-lock!”

Hands pawed at Kirk, rough and disrespectful, burrowing inside his clothes. One guard slid a hand down the back of his trousers, making him squirm. To his credit, he did not panic, letting the warriors converge on him aggressively. 

The ship lurched, lifting off and circling. Spock braced himself as G-forces intensified abruptly, making them all stumble as the craft accelerated through the atmosphere.

The Klingons laughed, starting to drag Kirk forward toward the bridge. Spock tensed, focusing all his attention on the delinquent guard, waiting for him to become distracted enough to look away--

He dropped his bundle and exploded into motion as the guard’s face turned toward Kirk, ducking away from the disruptor and lashing out with elbow, head, and heel, shattering the guard’s kneecap, knocking the wind from him, and shattering his nose in one savage attack. The disruptor clattered to the deck, and as the guard cried out, gurgling in pain, Kirk struck also, catching vulnerable genitals in his hand to squeeze and biting the face of the Klingon who’d kissed him.

Roars and screams erupted at once, and those who had not been close reached for their weapons, but Spock was faster. He covered them with the guard’s dropped pistol, firing twice without bothering to change the settings. The two he struck screamed and fell, clutching at their bloody wounds. 

Kirk fought like a dervish, making a weapon of his body. Spock waded in to support him, shooting at point-blank range and finishing two more of the group. Others began to converge, the deck plating ringing with the impact of running feet. 

Spock put his back to Kirk’s, covering the access corridor, picking off the unwary who came within range. He heard Kirk grunt; the human nearly fell, lurching dangerously against Spock. 

“Are you injured?” Spock queried sharply.

“Not much.” Kirk spat and Spock spied blood where the spittle struck. “Damned spiked gauntlets!” He stooped and turned, laying down support fire as Spock pressed forward. “We’ve got to take the bridge before they figure out what’s happening,” Kirk gasped, wiping his bloody mouth with his wrist. “At least they got it in the air for us.”

“I concur.” Spock pressed forward, Kirk hot on his heels.

Eight faces turned to regard them in shock as they burst onto the bridge. Their first two shots took the Klingon captain, vaporizing him half-out of his chair. Spock dropped the first officer with his next bolt, but Kirk missed his next shot and then they had to take cover, rolling away from incoming fire as the rest of the Klingons recovered. 

“This is gonna destroy the damn ship,” Kirk snarled, huddling with Spock behind the command chair. “Then how the hell will we get the fuck out of here?” He raised his voice. **“Stop shooting the fucking ship!”**

Spock might have used an epithet or colorful metaphor, had he been human. Instead he sighted from beneath the chair and cut the helmsman’s ankles out from under him. A disruptor bolt sizzled past overhead, singeing his hair. 

The ship rocked, striking an obstacle, and the Klingons who remained on their feet fell. Spock and Kirk took advantage of already being down, firing on their opponents as they tumbled.

“Did you just shoot the guy who was flying this thing?” Kirk bellowed, outraged.

“Affirmative.” Spock fired again. “If you have an alternative solution to killing the crew, I would be willing to entertain it!”

“You could’ve at least saved him for last!” He swung out, firing a wild barrage at the remaining crew.

The final Klingon dropped, and the bridge abruptly fell silent save for the crackle of short-circuited wires and the sputter of sparks shooting from the console to Spock’s left. 

“Is that everybody?” 

Spock made a careful count. “It is,” he said, and stood.

Kirk followed suit, wincing and touching his bloody face. “Let’s check for survivors and treat anybody who made it, then brig ’em. The rest need to go out the airlock.”

“It is fortunate the ship has already launched,” Spock said. “As none of our opponents seem to have survived the highjacking.”

Spock’s summation turned out to be correct, but there was no time to do more than confirm their kills. Kirk scrambled up and took the helm while Spock checked the bodies, swearing intermittently as he steered them around hurtling fragments of Praxis.

“Where the hell’s the fucking warp drive, goddammit,” Kirk singsonged, yanking the helm so sharply to starboard that Spock nearly fell. “We’ve gotta get the hell out of here.” A fragment buffeted them and Spock straightened, hurrying over to study the console. 

“Perhaps this,” he pointed.

“Yeah, but I don’t have a computed trajectory. How’s your Klingon?”

“Nonexistent.” Spock scanned the computer readout with care. “I will go and see if any of the other Klingons survived.”


	59. Chapter 59

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: a mental assault occurs in this chapter. There is also a good deal of unpleasantness with removing dead bodies.

One Klingon still survived, barely. He lay bleeding against the bulkhead, snarling as Spock appeared in the door.

“Ha'DIbaH!” The Klingon choked, but he was too weak to offer resistance as Spock knelt by his side. 

“What is your duty position aboard this ship?” Spock demanded. The Klingon drew breath as if to spit, but winced instead, choking weakly, his eyes beginning to glaze.

There was little time.

Spock splayed the fingers of his right hand over the Klingon’s face, slowing the bleeding with his left. “I do this because I have no choice, if I would find and protect my mate,” he explained quietly. “My mind to your mind.” Spock tried to shove away his own disgust and horror at the act and at the rancorous hatred in the Klingon’s thoughts as he delved inside.

A navigator-- ideal. Spock pushed hard, absorbing information as swiftly as he could, simultaneously plowing through resistance. He was forced to expend his own strength to forestall gathering confusion as the Klingon’s impending death pressed in like fog, collecting at the edges of his mind and creeping inexorably inward. Blood pumped out of the wound in the Klingon’s side, oozing sluggishly through Spock’s clenched fingers with each beat of the navigator’s heart. 

The last thing the navigator knew was the face of his child, somewhere on Qo’noS-- a girl child with a sweet smile. Spock winced, withdrawing his fingers from the sagging face. There was nothing left to read; the mind had extinguished like the flame of a pinched candle.

Spock sagged, releasing the Klingon and wiping his hands on the dead warrior’s clothing. What he had gleaned would have to be enough. The injustice of having taken a life, though, could never be redressed.

He stalked back down the corridor, pushing away revulsion and distress. “See to that short circuit,” he told Kirk sharply. “The smoke is fouling our air supply.” He took the helmsman’s seat in his place, programming the computer with swift strokes, then pulled back the warp lever that launched them forward, streaking into the altered realm of warp speed. 

“Nice,” Kirk said, looking up from his work as the drive evened off into a steady purr. “Did you check for additional crew?”

“We have accounted for the entire complement of the crew.” Their faces hovered in Spock’s mind: laughing, trusted comrades-- he shook his head sharply, compartmentalizing the navigator’s memory and setting it apart from his own. “We should be able to cruise with only minimal need for interference for a time while we dispose of the bodies.” _The spear in the other’s heart is the spear in your own. You are he._

Spock wondered if Leonard would be more disgusted with Spock for his unwise interactions with Kirk-- or for killing in the name of saving his mate. He closed his eyes and willed himself not to vomit.

Kirk finished neutralizing the short circuit, a time Spock used to regain control of his self-loathing and steel himself for the job to come. They removed the bodies one by one, utilizing the airlock function of the exit hatch.

“You’ve never killed anybody before,” Kirk said without any trace of mockery, observing Spock’s pallor after they removed the first body.

“No.” Spock declined further comment, drawing himself upright and turning away.

“Me neither.” Kirk admitted very quietly; he looked uncomfortably sick himself. “I just keep trying to remember they would have done this to us, and they might not have done us the courtesy of killing us first-- unless they fucked us to death before disposing of us.” The words hung heavily between them. “And there are humans who would’ve done the same to them.”

As a consoling mantra that left a lot to be desired, but Spock managed to steel himself to help Kirk accomplish the grisly task, then settled in with relief to repair-- or at least contain-- the damage from the firefight, much of which focused on the captain’s chair where they had sheltered, now a melted slagheap in the center of the bridge.

“Guess we won’t have to fight over it, then,” Kirk chuckled ruefully after testing it and declaring the controls a total loss.

“I would give much to know where Harrison went.” Spock began work on the helm, patching navigation functions into the piloting console. “As it is, I have set our course for the nearest Federation space. We may need your high security clearances to convince Federation vessels not to fire upon us when we arrive.”

“Yeah, I’ll cough ’em up if I have to.” Kirk wiped at his bleeding face again, spurring Spock’s conscience. He went back to the original point of entry and scooped up his bag, returning to the bridge through the narrow neck of the ship. 

“Come here and I will treat your injuries.” He pulled out their stolen dermal regenerator, calibrating it to the human setting. He ripped off a bit of cloth from his cloak, conscious of Kirk’s bright blue eyes fixed on his face.

“It might’ve been easier if you let them get busy with me before you turned on them. A man’s easier to kill with his pants down,” Kirk said softly. “And I bet they’d have been a lot more sluggish and easier to fight after they’d fucked me.”

Spock raised a brow at the crudity. “Our endeavor was successful as it occurred. There is no purpose in second-guessing--”

Kirk sighed, explosive. “I’m trying to say ‘thank you,’ Spock. I didn’t really want to get up close and personal with half a dozen Klingon cocks just to court a possible tactical advantage, is what I’m saying.” His eyes were steady. “You took a risk for my sake and it paid off. I’m grateful.” 

Spock lifted the fabric to his cheek, dabbing away a rivulet of blood. The gauntlet spikes had cut three long furrows in Kirk’s handsome face. He rose and went to the wall, requesting a container of hot water from the synthesizer there, then returned to clean the cuts, considering his response.

“The thought of them molesting you was not one that pleased me.” The words hung between them, inadequate. “I am relieved our success was not dependent upon allowing it.” He started the regenerator cycle, trying to hold the instrument at the same angle as he had seen Leonard do, moving it slowly along Kirk’s cheek and watching the delicate tissue begin to mend. “I do not know how to ensure these will not scar.”

“It’s OK, Spock.” Kirk sat very still, his head tilted, submitting to the treatment. “How’d you know how to run the ship all of a sudden?”

“I violated the mind of the ship’s navigator before he died.” 

Kirk blinked, brow pinching into a frown, and Spock realized he had failed to mask the pain and shame in his words. 

“Can you show me what you learned?”

Spock set the regenerator aside, surveying the red marks of the scars on Kirk’s cheek. “Teaching you to operate the computer would require you to grasp the Klingon alphabet and language. It would take considerable time to teach you the necessary skill.”

“No, I mean put it in my head, the way you took it out of his. You need me to help operate the ship.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Ha'DIbaH:_ Animal
> 
> I should warn that I'm still struggling with the action plot (and with starting a new phase of my work year at the same time), and will therefore definitely be forced to slow my posting schedule significantly within a couple of days, as I have now come within about 6,000 words (2-3 posts) of where I'm writing. By the time the boys cross the neutral zone, you folks are going to be stuck waiting, I'm afraid, until I'm secure enough in what I've written to judge pieces of plot fit for posting. 
> 
> I'd rather not make you wait, as your input on what I've done helps keep me motivated to write... but if it's not there yet, I just can't publish it! I appreciate your patience and advise you to subscribe to the story, if you haven't done so already, so you'll know when it's updated. Thank you for being in the audience!


	60. Chapter 60

Spock eyed Kirk, too surprised by the request for a meld to respond to it for a moment. “Earlier, you indicated your understanding that mental contact is a grave danger.”

Kirk smiled strangely, sunny on top but with grim resolve underneath. “Bones lets you into his mind. Is it more dangerous for me?”

Spock pursed his lips. “Individual humans react differently to telepathic contact, so I cannot judge your response before making the attempt. Moreover, my contact with Leonard is fundamentally different from that which you propose; I have never attempted to transfer large amounts of knowledge directly from my mind to another. The technique is rarely used.” He paused. “However, you are correct; I cannot run the ship alone, and it would be worth the risk to enable you to assist.” There were times when, even as a Vulcan, Spock detested the actions dictated by logic. 

Spock calmed himself with an effort. “It will require a deep meld, though you have expressed your aversion to the idea of casual mental contact with me in the past.” _And I have my own reservations._ He did not speak his concern; as a telepathic adept, it would be far easier for him to shield and protect his own mind than it would be for Kirk, an untrained human, to do so. “Additionally, Captain Pike forbade me to interfere with your mind.”

“He didn’t know I’d have already told you about being a secret agent.”

“A logical hypothesis.” Spock still hesitated. “Such a meld requires a modicum of mutual trust.” Kirk’s bravado made him insensitive to the danger of placing himself in such a situation. If Spock truly wished to harm Kirk, he could be offered no better opportunity for utter and swift annihilation. 

“I think you’ve earned some trust.” Kirk tilted his head, challenging. “Have I?”

Spock regarded him with resignation, beginning to prepare his mind. Kirk did not flinch or back down, awaiting his decision.

In answer, Spock lifted his hand. “I will be placing the information directly into your long-term memory. You may experience a certain amount of cognitive dissonance and difficulty in differentiating the new memories from your own knowledge, particularly at first. You will not become Lieutenant K’goh, nor will you take on aspects of his personality. But to know him in this way may prove both intimate and disconcerting.”

Kirk swallowed, his adam’s apple bobbing, but he remained still as Spock placed his hand on the contact points. 

Spock became intensely conscious of Kirk’s pulse fluttering through the surface of his skin, and of the involuntary motions of his eyes as he studied Spock’s face. His tongue darted out, wetting his lips and betraying his nervous state of mind.

“My mind to your mind,” Spock said quietly. “My thoughts to your thoughts.”

Kirk experienced an instant of fear-- only a flicker before he deliberately relaxed and yielded himself. His mind opened before Spock neatly and without need for force, rather like a flower opening its petals to the sun.

He had no natural shields, so Spock could not help but be aware of Kirk’s thoughts as he delved inside, looking for a space where he could place the requested memories. He tried to streamline himself, looking only where he needed, but the subtle burn of Kirk’s attraction caught his mind’s eye. He carefully sidestepped it; according to McCoy, Kirk seemed to experience some level of sexual attraction for nearly everyone he met. 

Respect fluttered past, also, and an unexpected current of friendliness. Spock turned away from them as well, envisioning an empty shelf and beginning to deposit the memories upon it, using the metaphor to its full extent: a thick book labeled “navigation.” Lesser ones followed: a limited selection of language, the alphabet, knowledge of the helm and other bridge stations, of the replicator: Spock organized and sorted as he went, compartmentalizing K’goh’s knowledge both for himself and both for Kirk, blending meditation and meld in a way he would hardly have thought possible while in contact with a human brain, but Kirk kept himself disciplined, and his thoughts did not yammer or distract Spock from his work. 

He could not keep all the Klingon’s personal memories out of the transfer; many of them intertwined with the knowledge Kirk required. However, Kirk’s mind was unexpectedly well-structured; he should be able to handle them.

For a wonder, Kirk kept his thoughts calm enough for Spock to achieve his purpose without either of them experiencing undue distress. Spock kept himself contained as well, picturing himself enclosed in a thick-walled bubble that shunted Kirk’s less-controlled thoughts and feelings aside, flowing past him. They went easily, not attempting to attach or cling before he finished. 

Spock finished, becoming aware of how Kirk’s pulse beat through them both, its slow human throb reminding Spock of Leonard, sending a pang of longing echoing through his mind.

His lapse of control provoked a flare of undisciplined cognition from them both; Kirk’s love mirrored Spock’s, beating silent and deep, its solitary condition a terrible ache, an emptiness only partly filled by Leonard’s brotherly affection. Spock’s feelings were calmer, quieter, but equally intense. The two complimentary emotions sensed and resonated with one another, threatening a deeper breach of Spock’s private mind as the kindred love in their souls recognized twin feelings in the other and began to merge.

Spock pulled away before the joining could grow deeper, wrapping himself in thicker concealment, but Kirk was already aware of his lapse, aware of Spock’s grief and yearning, and his mind was responding to it. His wide blue eyes were soft, a little moisture gathering at the corners. Gentle sympathy filled him, and reciprocal pain.

Spock broke the meld, removing his hands and turning away. 

“I’m glad you love him so much.” Kirk’s voice was thick, hoarse with emotion. “I wasn’t sure what you felt, or if you felt anything at all, at least not by human standards.”

Spock once again found himself at a loss for words to answer Kirk; it seemed to happen frequently. He stepped away before the silence could grow uncomfortable. His hands shook very slightly, and it took an act of will to still them.

Kirk’s beautifully disciplined, brilliant, compassionate mind was a revelation, one Spock would have liked to explore more deeply. Indeed, it seemed likely he would have been drawn to Kirk like a moth to a flame, had circumstances transpired differently. But his heart was given to Leonard-- a certainty that soothed him in this moment, giving him strength and purpose.

Spock drew himself together, very proper, relieved that Kirk had seen only his regard for McCoy before Spock withdrew. It would not do to let Kirk become aware that the attraction Spock had sensed in Kirk’s mind was reciprocated, even though it was only to a minor degree. Kirk could not resist a challenge; it would be absolute folly to give him one.

“K’goh had a daughter.” Kirk spoke slowly, dismay in his voice. He looked even sicker than he had when they were removing bodies, if that were possible. “So does Bones.”

“Yes.” Spock would say no more of the matter. “Take the helm,” he directed Kirk quietly. “I have not had adequate nourishment for many days. I will synthesize food.”

Kirk nodded, gathering his composure, and stepped away to man the helm, tentatively exploring the computer with his new knowledge, his lips shaping the unfamiliar syllables with dawning wonder.

Spock pulled his gaze away, turning to the synthesizer. After the intimate mental contact with Kirk, his heart cried out for Leonard, for his comforting hands, his wry half-smile, his moss-brown eyes. Leonard would understand the things Spock had been forced to do; he would forgive. Spock knew it in the same way he knew Leonard loved him-- in the same way he knew Leonard also cared deeply for Kirk. But he was dismayed, nonetheless, that he would have to tell his mate of his many shames. 

Spock managed to make the synthesizer produce vegetable protein, seasoned to palatable quality with Klingon spices similar to capsicum and curry. He procured roast meat for Kirk and water for them both, taking one plate to the helm and leaving it at Kirk’s elbow, wondering if either of them would have the ability to eat.

“Thanks, Spock.” The words were gentle, spoken in perhaps the kindest tone he’d ever heard from James Kirk, and he honored them with polite eye contact.

“You’re welcome, Jim.” The name escaped him without him planning for it to do so. Kirk’s eyes went wide with astonishment and he grinned, the expression transforming the weary lines of his dirty, blood-streaked face. He looked radiant, happy-- boyish, almost mischievous.

Spock turned away from the happiness he had inadvertently created and went to the captain’s chair, which was still functional in its capacity as a seat, if in no other. He seated himself and began to eat, forcing himself to take small, polite bites even when his stomach rebelled-- and later, after it recognized food and began to growl like a ravening _le-matya._

“We should arrive on the other side of the neutral zone in about seventy hours,” Kirk said. “There’ll probably be a welcoming committee.”

“I hope Captain Pike will be among them,” Spock said, remembering at the last moment not to talk with his mouth full. “I hope to consult with him regarding our opponent before we engage Harrison for a third time.”

“Yeah.” Kirk didn’t swallow his mouthful before speaking, a lapse Spock decided to forgive him for. “We’ve got a lot of planning to do.”


	61. Chapter 61

Planning time didn’t come easily to two men trying to operate an alien ship designed for a minimum crew of six. Warp speed allowed a certain amount of time away from minding the helm, but it was only a temporary reprieve. Should they have to join battle or land the ship, they were in trouble; two men couldn’t be in six places at once. 

Perhaps fortunately, their struggle to operate the vessel didn’t provide much time for personal interactions.

Spock spent his time stripping wiring from nonessential systems and working feverishly to route control of various stations to the two central helm consoles while Kirk cared for the ship and monitored communications. It was a touchy business. Even at warp, the requirements of piloting their stolen vessel were urgent and varied. Frequently they were needed in more than one place simultaneously; both of them spent a great deal of time rushing down to engineering to make hasty adjustments to the antimatter mix or keep the dubious Klingon dilithium crystals from exploding under the strain of maximum warp and blowing them to vapor. 

Stolen naps were all they could manage, curled up in alternating shifts on the deck plates in engineering or on the bridge trying to sleep fitfully while listening for the next alarm.

“Approaching neutral zone,” Spock warned early on the fourth day. “Scanning multiple ships. Six Klingon battle cruisers, all significantly larger than ourselves, and one Constellation class starship. It is the Enterprise.”

“Nice even odds, then.” Kirk drawled, fingers flying rapidly across the board. “We should stay in warp until we reach Federation space.”

“What is your reasoning?”

“There’s no tactical advantage to be gained by trying to stay undercover. Neither of us is good enough at the language to convince the other Klingon ships we’re with them-- and if we succeeded, Enterprise would just treat us as a target when things get hostile.”

“Our unexpected arrival may precipitate hostilities.” Spock looked toward the panel that controlled the cloaking device, which had proved frustratingly touchy and impossible to re-wire. “We might remain cloaked and remain in the rear of the Klingon contingent, providing supportive fire for the Enterprise if battle is joined.” 

“We’d have to decloak to do that. Then the first time we’re hit, we’ll both be stuck handling damage control, and that’ll leave us drifting in space. They’d pick us off immediately.”

Spock nodded tightly. “Emerging from warp in Federation space and contacting our allies seems the logical choice. I will hail the Enterprise the moment we clear the neutral zone.”

Kirk closed down unnecessary systems before they dropped out of warp, minimizing power consumption while Spock monitored ongoing communications.

“This appears to be a peaceful gathering. A delegation from the Klingon High Council has sent emissaries to discuss humanitarian aid and amicable future relations following the destruction of Praxis.” 

Kirk gave a wild whoop, punching the air. A premature gesture of victory, Spock assumed.

“Hailing Enterprise.” Spock encrypted the text-based hail manually, signing it with his personal identification code. “Federation agents undercover in cloaked, stolen vessel, standing by.” and transmitted it as a high-speed squirt, hoping the communications officer was sharp enough to spot what he was doing-- and that the Klingons weren’t. 

He was not disappointed; after ninety seconds an answer appeared in the same terse format: “Acknowledged. Decloak and lower shields; we will lock your vessel in a tractor beam. Prepare for transport.”

Spock disengaged the cloaking device, the ship’s unexpected appearance provoking a flurry of startled comm activity from the assembled Klingon vessels. He and Kirk stood and composed themselves for transport.

As he felt the first tingle of dematerialization, Spock turned toward Kirk calmly, drawing his phaser.

“May I remind you that you are under arrest, cadet, and subject to the full penalty of Federation law for aiding and abetting in the destruction of Praxis, assaulting a--”

“--superior officer, and assisting in the escape of the wanted fugitive John Harrison.” The Enterprise solidified around them as he finished speaking.

Kirk stared at him with exasperated disbelief. “What the fuck, Spock! Didn’t we already hash this out back on Qo’noS?”

“Commander,” Spock corrected, implacable. “Cadet Riley, summon a security detail and escort cadet Kirk to a holding facility in the brig.” He paused. “Maximum security. He is more resourceful than he appears.”

A quintet of armed guards hustled in and took custody of Kirk; as he had no assigned duties as yet, Spock supervised the transfer and saw to Kirk’s incarceration himself, ignoring the man’s martyred grumbling. 

“Your innocence will be determined by a higher authority than myself,” he said, stepping back from the force field. 

“Damn right it will.” Pike stalked in, scowling. 

“Captain.” Spock clasped his hands behind his back, respectful. “I will prepare a report as swiftly as possible. Harrison is still at large. He planted a bomb that destroyed the moon of Praxis. Cadet Kirk is complicit in--”

“Cadet Kirk is free; all charges are dropped.” Pike laid his palm over the computer sensor. “I’m aware of the status of Praxis and the full extent of Cadet Kirk’s involvement or lack thereof, Spock.”

“Captain, I must protest. It is unwise to proceed without first allowing me to report information of which you may not be fully aware--”

“Come on out of there, Jim.” Pike barked. “Thank you, commander, but your report will have to wait. I have a delegation of desperate Klingon diplomats and no first officer to meet them with.” Pike beckoned sharply, leading them from the brig together.

Spock blinked at his receding back and fell in behind him. “It will take only five minutes for me to ready myself--”

“You get into your dress blues, commander, and come with us. Computer. Commander Spock is to replace Cadet Marcus as science officer. Cadet Kirk is now acting first officer.”

Spock blinked, very nearly coming to a stop. “Captain, I must--”

“Stow it and keep it for later, Spock.” Pike’s palm sliced the air, brisk. “Kirk, get out of that ridiculous outfit and into a uniform. Rand, assign him quarters and give him access to the replicator.”

“Yes, sir!” The blond yeoman at Pike’s heels peeled off, leading Kirk away. 

“Captain, as you have noted yourself, Cadet Kirk is dangerously unpredictable.” Spock managed to keep his tone even.

‘Damn right he is.” Pike never slowed down. “Stop antagonizing him, Spock. Unpredictability may be an advantage. Scan the briefing on the Klingon diplomatic party before you come down to the transporter room to greet the delegation with me. They’re a mixed bag and I don’t know how far we can trust them.”

Spock obeyed the captain’s orders, hastily showering and changing while having the computer read him the relevant briefing information. Pike certainly had cause for concern; all the Klingons represented in the delegation were prominent war leaders, even the ambassador himself.


	62. Chapter 62

By the time the turbolift disgorged him next to the transporter room, Spock was very nearly late, assuming the parade rest position on Pike’s left side just as the ringing hum of materialization began. Pike did not acknowledge him, calm and relaxed, but Kirk’s eyes flickered in his direction. Spock matched the captain’s indifferent poise, keeping his eyes turned forward as the delegates arrived.

The party was comprised of males, all but one dressed in traditional warrior garb. The centermost Klingon had less metal plating on him than the others and wore no sidearm. He extended his hands toward Pike politely and Pike stepped forward to clasp them.

“Welcome to the Enterprise, gentlemen. The Federation regrets the disaster that threatens Qo’noS,” Pike said smoothly. “On behalf of our president and the citizens whom he represents, I’m empowered to offer humanitarian aid: food when your supplies run short, medicine for the injured, refuge for those who remain in the path of meteoritic bombardment, and assistance in locating and colonizing a new homeworld for your people, should your High Council choose that course of action.”

Spock could actually hear teeth grinding in response to Pike’s polite welcome. The delegates’ expressions did not soften. 

“Please step this way,” Pike remained polite, though Spock could tell he wasn’t feeling very optimistic. “A meeting room has been prepared so we can discuss how best to begin delivery of aid to your people.”

“The emperor has agreed that I may discuss your terms, but they will be transmitted to him and to the High Council for acceptance.”

“Surely there’s little need to discuss terms for accepting humanitarian assistance.” Pike walked politely at the Klingon’s right hand to usher him to the meeting room. “The Federation has no demands to make in exchange for our aid.”

Spock wondered at the honesty of that statement, even coming from Pike; certainly the Klingons would be expected to cease hostilities against the Federation even if it was not an openly expressed condition of receiving aid. Their own standard of honor should demand no less, and the rapidly deteriorating condition of their homeworld must strongly suggest it was time to make peace with neighboring races. It was doubtless a bitter pill to swallow for a proud warrior race accustomed to centuries of aggressive imperial expansion.

Spock exchanged a glance with Kirk, then let the man precede him, walking to the side of one of the Klingon generals. He accompanied the third himself, and a few other crewmen fell in behind. An honor guard, of sorts-- all discreetly armed, one for each delegate. Not a particularly auspicious beginning for talks that assumed there would be peace. 

“Starfleet has dispatched our fastest ships to assemble food, medicine, and shelter for your people,” Pike said without preamble as the party took their seats, Klingons on one side of the table and humans on the other, with Pike and the ambassador facing one another across its length. “They should begin arriving shortly. We can ferry the material across the Neutral Zone ourselves, or, if you prefer, you can dispatch cargo ships across the neutral zone and it will be transferred to you here.”

“We will make no agreement until your terms are revealed!” One of the generals clenched his gauntleted fist and slammed it down on the table, scarring the smooth material. 

“Captain Pike has been very clear,” Kirk interjected smoothly. “We do not require you agree to terms. Only to specify the method you prefer to use in receiving our aid.”

“You treat us as beggars on the street!”

Spock steepled his fingers, listening and analyzing. The delegates hardly seemed entertain the proposed aid at all; what purpose might they have, then, for coming to discuss it?

“Bridge to Captain Pike. We are receiving a distress call.”

“Put it on visual. Excuse me, gentlemen.” Pike activated his viewscreen and frowned down at the display.

The distress call came from a single Federation vessel broadcasting for help from Klingon space. Spock caught Kirk’s flinch out of the corner of his eye; the message was very reminiscent of the Kobayashi Maru scenarios he had faced. Pike could not fail to recognize it. 

“I will remain here for now. The First Officer has the conn,” Pike said calmly. “Kirk, you may act at your discretion.”

Kirk swallowed, his adam’s apple bobbing. “Aye, sir.” He rose and departed the room. Spock fairly itched to pursue him, but Pike quelled him with a sidelong look. 

“Perhaps if we arranged for supplies to be left at a mutually agreeable neutral location,” Spock suggested smoothly. 

“We will not agree to accept aid before terms are set!”

“Very well. Since you believe there must be terms, perhaps you would assist us by specifying the terms you desire,” Spock said smoothly. 

“We will accept no terms!”

Spock remained patient with an effort as Pike resumed control. “Please excuse me, gentlemen, but should I interpret your words to mean you intend to reject Federation aid entirely?”

“The empire does not accept charity!” Another battle-scarred old warrior surged to his feet, disruptor in hand-- and as he did, the klaxon erupted. 

“Red alert. Enemy ships decloaking. All hands to battle stations!” Kirk’s voice echoed over the PA. “Shields up. Brace for--” 

The ship shuddered and dipped, tossing security guards between the walls like flakes in a snow globe-- but the Klingons stood firm. Spock snatched for Pike, meaning to drag him down beneath the shield of the tabletop, but it was already too late. A disruptor whined before he could succeed and the captain cried out, then went limp, an unconscious weight in his arms.

Spock lowered his captain swiftly and lunged forward, drawing his hidden Klingon blade out of his boot, and drove it into the ankle of the nearest delegate, ripping through the tendon at his heel. The Klingon staggered, cursing, and Spock managed to hobble another before the ship bucked so hard even the Klingons fell. The air sang with transporter energy.

“Shields are down!” Spock barked. “Prepare to repel boarders. Secure all blast portals and institute security protocol 7 alpha!”

From beneath the shield of the table, Spock picked off two more delegates; other crewmen had begun to recover and join the battle. In moments the Klingons were neutralized and Spock emerged from cover, wiping his blade on the cloak of the downed ambassador. Seeing the Klingon was still alive, Spock stunned him. “Bind the hands and feet of anyone left alive,” he commanded, touching the comm. “Dr. Puri, Captain Pike has been shot. Bring a team to conference room A--”

“I’ll try, but we’re fighting them hand to hand here in sickbay. Can you--” the signal exploded into static as the ship lurched into a barrel roll, momentarily overwhelming the inertial dampeners.

“Riley, remain with the captain,” Spock ordered. “The rest of you-- disarm the Klingons and come with me.” Since Kirk was now acting captain, that placed Spock in the role of first officer. 

Kirk and the bridge crew would have to deal with the incoming fire. Spock rallied any able-bodied crew to repel the boarding forces, creating battle groups and assigning leaders between skirmishes as they surged upward and downward, clearing the ship one deck at a time. Apparently Kirk had managed to raise the shields, as no further beam-ins occurred. Spock had no time to consult the computer and ascertain their status.

Combat surged up and down the corridors, fierce and merciless. Cadets and Klingons alike lay where they fell, limp bodies rolling back and forth like ragdolls as the helm continued evasive maneuvers and fire rocked the ship. 

Spock led the resistance, phaser in one hand and Klingon knife in the other, punching toward the bridge. He sought the white-hot rage prompted by Khan’s escape and let it drive him forward, focused on eliminating the menace to ship and crew. He strode through slick puddles of red and purple without looking down at the bodies that lay bleeding on the deck.

It was no less distasteful to deal impassive death to those who had chosen to answer kindness with violence than to those from whom he had meant to steal a ship.

The nightmare around him seemed to crawl, allowing him to shoot, parry, dodge, and strike at his leisure. Half a dozen cadets fell in to follow him; he recognized them all. Sulu, Riley, Arex, Uhura, Tomkins-- together they formed a small wedge of death, moving in savage, efficient synchrony until at last there were none left to stand before them and they burst onto the bridge.

Kirk actually surged out of his chair at the helm, eyes going wide. 

“We are still fighting to secure the saucer,” Spock reported. “Engineering is secure.”

“Holy shit, Spock.” Kirk swallowed, and a detached part of Spock’s mind wondered vaguely how he looked; was that a flicker of fear in the human’s eyes? Was it awe? “Is there someone here who can take the helm? We lost Madison.”

“I can, sir.” Sulu darted forward and Kirk resumed the center seat.

“Half a dozen of the fuckers decloaked and attacked shortly after the negotiations began. Somebody let down our shields to let them beam in.” A muscle in Kirk’s jaw jumped. The ship lurched to avoid an incoming torpedo and he braced on the back of the command chair. “Where’s Pike?”

“He was wounded in the initial attack. Dr. Puri has dispatched a team, but I have no update.”

“We have a friendly on our scopes,” Sulu yelped. “Unknown ship at three o’clock opening fire on the Klingon fleet!”

“Lay down cover fire!” Kirk whirled, all attention back on the battle. 

Spock stared at the viewscreen, unable to believe his eyes. “It is the T’Pel.”

“She’s going for the flagship,” Kirk muttered. 

“Incoming communication.” The comm officer fought the board, and Uhura huffed, darting over to help. 

“--to Enterprise, T’Pel to Enterprise.” T’Rileh’s calm tones filled the bridge. 

“Go ahead, T’Rileh.” Kirk very nearly crowed with triumph.

“Cadet Kirk. Is Spock with you?”

“He’s aboard.”

“Excellent. Engaging Klingon warbird.” The ship steadied and accelerated. “Adjust your flight path, Enterprise; veer to starboard. You are blocking my planned trajectory.” The little ship darted for the huge craft straight as an arrow, unwavering; all her fire spread out to the sides, pushing back flanking ships. “Please beam me aboard immediately.”

“Shit. She’s gonna ram them.” Kirk slapped the comm. “Transporter room, lock onto the pilot of the new ship and get her the fuck out of there! Helm--”

“Hard to starboard,” Sulu was already dragging the ship sideways. 

The T’Pel never faltered, diving straight for the bridge of the flagship, pursuing with the tenacity of a gnat when the larger craft attempted to evade, dodging torpedos and phaser fire with the agility of a virtuoso. The silent impact flared a brilliant yellow-white, forcing the flagship off one side-- where it struck the derelict ship Spock and Kirk had stolen, sending it careening wildly into another bird of prey, shearing off a nacelle and crippling the craft.

“Transporter control!” Kirk shouted. “Have you got her? Report!”

“Got her!” Scott’s voice shouted, his thick brogue exultant.

“Playing billiards using ships for balls,” Sulu muttered, awed. “That’s…. Captain--” he interrupted himself, a yelp of joy. “We have warp!”

“Get us out of--”

The starfield was already blurring.


	63. Chapter 63

Kirk stood up, reaching for his phaser. “Set a course for Starbase 24, Sulu. Come on, Spock. Let’s go finish clearing out the Klingons.”

The second sweep went faster and easier; most of the Klingons had already been neutralized as Spock and his team plowed their way to the bridge. Medical crew had already ventured out into the halls, treating the wounded. Halfway to the transporter room, Kirk and Spock met T’Rileh climbing through an emergency access conduit with a burly security guard in tow, splitting his attention between watching her and scanning various nooks and crannies for lingering Klingons.

“Cadet Hendorff,” Spock greeted him soberly. “Our guest is under my supervision; you may return to your duties.”

“Yes, sir.” 

T’Rileh’s eyes flew wide as she snatched for Hendorff’s sidearm, but Kirk was faster. He fired, stepping between Spock and the Klingon emerging from a side corridor. Moments later the warrior slumped to the ground, a smoking hole where his chest used to be.

“Return her phaser,” Spock instructed Hendorff, who did so.

The wounded Klingon was obviously dead; Hendorff heaved him aside so they could pass.

Spock glanced at Kirk, already tucking his phaser away.

“Thank you.”

Kirk raised a brow at him, smirking just a little. “I owed you one.” He turned to T’Rileh. “What happened to you? I thought you were a goner.”

“The T’Pel was damaged when Praxis exploded. I experienced great difficulty escaping the moon, and the communications array was badly damaged by a debris impact. My plans for repair were interrupted by the launch of a significant number of Klingon spacecraft; it was logical to flee and seek assistance.” Her clipped voice delivered the recital with crisp competence.

“Under the circumstances, I am authorizing you to join our security department and granting you the temporary rank of lieutenant, pending the acting captain’s approval,” Spock announced, and Kirk made it official with a nod.

A sweep of the saucer revealed half a dozen more Klingon invaders attempting to hide and perform various acts of sabotage. One succeeded in knocking Kirk onto his sore shoulder, making him turn white and grimace. After the clean-up was done, Spock turned to him.

“I will now escort you to sickbay. I wish to check on the status of Captain Pike, and it is clear you require medical attention.”

“Others need it more than I do.” Kirk let himself be chivvied down to see Dr. Puri in spite of his bold words, and while Puri diagnosed Kirk’s shoulder, Spock found himself standing over the biobed where Pike lay. The disruptor damage was neatly bandaged, but Pike lay very still and pale, the life sign monitors registering alarmingly low.

“He’ll be functional in a few days, maybe a week,” Puri said softly. “It’s worse than it might have been because we couldn’t get to him right away.”

Spock’s eyes darted to Kirk; he wondered if Pike would have made the same duty assignment if he had foreseen his own incapacity. Perhaps he would regain consciousness soon.

Spock saw to T’Rileh’s lodging, then withdrew to his quarters, feeling the urgent need for a shower and a uniform. He had intended to speak with Montgomery Scott regarding his role in the events on Praxis, but Scott would be in the midst of his sleeping cycle now. It would have to wait until the start of alpha shift.

Once clean and outfitted in his own clothing, he felt oddly more-- and less-- like himself. These quarters should be familiar, should be a refuge. He had prepared them to be so, and had occupied them at various times during the Enterprise’s construction and outfitting, but now he felt like a stranger in them, not like the first officer he had anticipated becoming. 

He moved to the wall and lit the flame in the belly of the stone meditation idol, then knelt on his mat, composing himself with an effort. There was much to consider and accept-- not least of it the nagging emptiness of Leonard’s continued absence, a ragged hole in his mind. He was unable to settle properly, though-- too weary, too agitated, too uncertain of the future.

He rose instead and went to his work desk, pulling out a sketchpad, and began to draw without thinking, hoping to calm himself enough to sleep. 

Leonard, his face nearly obscured by plexiglas and a rime of frost--

Spock turned the page and began again. Kirk this time. Spock gave him an expression of confidence, eyes blazing despite his weariness-- over a command gold uniform, lounging in the center seat up on the bridge. Every line of him screamed lazy defiance. Something about the set of his jaw suggested vulnerability, a hint of uncertainty so faint it was almost imperceptible-- a small tell Spock had learned to see through acquaintance and shared peril.

His lips bore the scars from the Klingon’s gauntlet and Spock’s own teeth.

Spock sat back and considered his work. Kirk would be a brash and daring captain, inexperienced; he would require his second in command to provide caution so his natural recklessness did not lead the crew into a predicament from which there was no escape.

Perhaps Spock would be a good balance for Kirk, if he could convince the man to listen and heed his advice. He could almost hear Leonard’s wry tones in response to his thought-- ‘Good luck with that.’ Listening was far from James Kirk’s greatest skill.

His door chimed. “Come,” Spock said before wondering who it might be at this hour. 

It was Kirk, attired as Spock had imagined him and looking quite defensive about it. 

“The computer said you were still awake. Incoming transmissions are full of bad news, Spock.” Kirk strode confidently to Spock’s desk and looked down at the half-finished drawing with frank curiosity, showing none of the reticence Leonard had displayed over seeing how Spock chose to depict him. 

“Wow,” he said, his eyes widening. “That’s really good.” 

Spock carefully removed the page from the sketchbook and offered it to him.

Kirk accepted, taking care not to smudge the drawing as he tilted it to catch the light. 

“Harrison’s-- Khan’s-- been a busy boy while we were getting our asses off Qo’noS.” He set the page aside and reached for Spock’s computer. “Let me show you.”

London was burning, a huge section of the Starfleet data archive in flames. 

The door chimed and Spock blinked, pulling his attention away from the news report. 

“I woke Mr. Scott.” Kirk confessed. “He needs to see some of this.”

Scott left polite greetings unspoken when he spied the viewscreen. “That’s Area 31.”

Spock raised an eyebrow at him. 

“No, I was stationed there. The data archive designation is only a cover, and the library is only the part above-ground. If Harrison did that…” Scott shook his head. “Starfleet higher-ups wanted Praxis gone, sure, but there’s no way this was their idea. There were hundreds of research scientists in there. Some of Earth’s greatest minds.” His eyes sparkled, too wet. “I had friends in there.”

“We’ll avenge your friends by bringing Harrison to justice,” Kirk said softly. “We’ll get Harrison, Marcus, anybody else who’s responsible. I’m gonna need you to make an unofficial report. Tell me everything you know-- about this, about Harrison, about Qo’noS, about Praxis, about the people who were running Area 31. Everything.”

“I’ll get to work right away.” Scotty turned away from the devastation on the screen, his voice subdued with grief, and slipped out. 

“Starfleet brass are blaming that explosion on Klingon terrorists. Authorities report sightings of Klingon saboteurs all over Earth, and there’ve been several additional explosions. This is only the largest. I might think it was Admiral Marcus goading the population toward voting for war in the referendum-- but even if he got that sneaky, he wouldn’t choose Area 31 for bombing. He and Khan may have some of the same goals… but I don’t think they’re in league anymore. I think Khan’s gone rogue on him.”

The door chimed again and Spock raised a brow at Kirk, beginning to feel uncomfortably popular. It opened to reveal Carol Marcus, her eyes wide and frantic; Spock prudently deactivated the viewscreen as Kirk turned to greet her.

“Jim! I’ve been helping with casualties. What happened, where have you been and how did you get here? Did you find Leonard?” Babbling greetings and questions, Carol Marcus impacted against Kirk’s chest like a cannonball.

“Oof!” Kirk struggled for breath to answer her and threw Spock a desperate, guilty look over the top of her head. 

“Commander, review those files, please, and we’ll consult again before we drop out of warp.” He guided Carol out, crooning gentle answers to soothe her, and Spock watched them go in silent relief. Dr. Puri had repaired the fading bite marks on Kirk’s mouth and the scars their fight with the Klingons had left on his face, never inquiring about their origin; that was also a relief.

With a half-sigh, Spock resumed perusing news broadcasts and official communications, looking for clues to the whereabouts and plans of both Khan and Admiral Marcus-- and with them, Leonard.


	64. Chapter 64

Consciousness came reluctantly, following the sting of a hypo at his throat. Bones tried to swat it away, but his hands didn’t want to move; he couldn’t feel them properly-- or his feet either.

His eyes fluttered open, focusing with difficulty on the face above him: brown skin, brown eyes, jet black hair, and white teeth exposed in a mocking smile.

“It appears you have survived the thawing process, doctor. How fortunate for you.” Khan held the hypo Bones had felt; he tucked it away.

Bones tried to snatch for it, but again he couldn’t move fast enough; his hands didn’t respond properly. 

“You should be pleased that you have awakened in your own time, not many hundreds of years removed from everyone you knew and loved.” Khan’s voice was silky.

“How long?” Bones demanded, the words thick on his numb lips.

Khan shrugged but did not answer. 

“What did you give me?”

“A psionic suppressant,” Khan smiled, hard-edged; it never reached his eyes. “It is a type of benzodiazepine, doctor. Your Vulcan lover will not be able to use his telepathy to track you again.”

McCoy’s heart sank; it was true-- he couldn’t feel Spock’s mind at all. 

“I’m still not waking up your people.” He lifted his chin-- that, at least, he could accomplish. “You can kill me if you want. But I won’t do that for you.”

“Then I will have to find other tasks you will not find so distasteful,” Khan spoke lightly, his eyes snapping with an anger that belied his pleasant tone. “Rest assured, I can find many things for you to do, and you will not find it easy to refuse them.”

Bones swallowed hard, trying to keep his face impassive. He didn’t doubt Khan’s ability to deliver on his promises.

Khan’s smile widened. “I see we understand one another.” He set the empty hypo aside. “I am merely a desperate man forced to extremes, doctor.”

Khan led McCoy to a handful of Klingons who sat bleeding purple in an adjacent room. One, more seriously injured than the others, lay senseless on the floor. He looked like something had exploded in his face. Probably it had.

“Medical supplies are limited.” Khan gestured to a crate in one corner. McCoy’s own medical bag sat on top of it. “Be my guest.”

McCoy hesitated-- but his oath was clear; he could not in good conscience refuse to treat an injured man, not even a Klingon. He sighed. “The rest of you get that man up onto that table so I can stop the bleeding before he dies. Well, get on with it. Or don’t you speak Standard?”

The Klingons snarled, but they obeyed. McCoy was surprised when Khan remained to assist-- not at all squeamish about getting his hands dirty, he seemed much more willing to work than he’d been as John Harrison.

“I need more substantial medical equipment than this,” McCoy muttered, already flicking his eyes over the Klingon, doing rapid triage. “Got any?”

Khan lifted a box. “Only the best hand-held instruments Starfleet has to offer.”

Of course he wouldn’t have been able to make off with anything larger. McCoy selected a protoplaser and got to work.

Treating injuries of various severity kept him busy, but as he worked his way to the bottom of the triage list, the reduction in severity allowed his mind to wander, and he reconstructed the last minutes he had spent in proximity to Spock. They were a blur thanks to the blindfold he’d worn; he couldn’t be sure of anything but the sounds of fighting and Jim trying some kind of ludicrous bluff: pure, desperate bravado. Khan hadn’t fallen for it, so Leonard had tried to tip the balance in their favor, unwittingly bringing disaster. 

He didn’t know where they were now-- though he’d hazard a guess it was Earth. The atmosphere on alien worlds never smelled quite right. He couldn’t be sure, though-- and neither could Spock. Spock, who would be… well, if not frantic with worry, then at least the Vulcan equivalent. Probably logically, impassively frantic, manifesting mostly in a ruthless effort to pierce the mystery of Leonard’s whereabouts.

Spock’s mind had been anything but calm when the transporter took Leonard. Guilt burned him now for his recklessness and the anguish it had caused. Maybe Jim’s plan would have worked if he hadn’t screwed things up.

No way of knowing exactly how long he’d spent in that cryo tube or what Khan might have spent the interval doing-- and nothing other than Khan’s word to assure him it hadn’t been decades or even centuries. Leonard shied from the uncertainty, his stomach lurching with nausea.

The last Klingon scooted off the tabletop and McCoy looked up, finding Khan’s sardonic gaze awaiting him. “Good work,” he grinned, predatory and unpleasant. Khan held a mess of wires and buckles in his hand.

“An electronic hobble,” Khan said, his smirk deepening. “If you try to escape, I will incapacitate you.” He advanced, two of the healthier Klingons flanking him. 

McCoy yielded reluctantly to the logic of the situation.

Khan wrapped the hobbles around Leonard’s wrists and ankles, leaving him limited use of his arms and legs-- enough to provide medical assistance if someone needed it, enough to shuffle around slowly. Anything faster and he’d wind up flat on his face.

“I left your mate on Qo’noS,” Khan said, “after I set explosives that demolished the planet’s moon. He and the cadet, Kirk, will not survive the meteoritic bombardment.”

McCoy felt his whole body go cold and stiff; the only heat left in him was rage, burning a white-hot inferno in his heart; it blazed from his eyes despite anything he could do to contain it. “Fuck you,” he hissed and spat straight in Khan’s face.

Answering rage blazed for a moment before Khan mastered himself, slowly lifting an arm to wipe himself clean.

“You are a brave man, doctor.” Khan’s laugh had no pleasure in it, only bitter threat, but he left McCoy to rest. 

There was a rough cot and a scratchy blanket in the corner. Lying there and staring at an institutional gray wall, Leonard wondered if Spock were still alive. He hadn’t thought it could get any worse than getting divorced from Jocelyn and losing custody of Joanna, but to lose both Spock and Jim in the same instant, victims of a madman’s whim?

If the man was so certain of Spock’s demise, he wouldn’t have bothered to give Leonard a psionic suppressant. McCoy made himself calm down, forcing himself to breathe steadily-- Khan wasn’t all-powerful. He didn’t know everything. But if Spock were dead… if Jim were dead….

McCoy silently decided that none of his healer’s oaths would stop him from killing Khan if and when he got the opportunity. He would bide his time, pretend he was broken… and wait for the bastard to make a mistake.


	65. Chapter 65

A week later, up to his elbows in the shredded remains of an operative who hadn’t quite escaped the blast range of the bomb he’d set, Bones was about ready to decide Khan wasn’t ever going to make a mistake-- at least, not one that did McCoy any good. He was kept busy patching up injuries both large and small, but his guards were careful and diligent. He hadn’t yet managed to smuggle so much as an aspirin out from under their watchful eyes, and his cell offered no exploitable weaknesses. 

McCoy swayed, dizziness making his head swim-- probably a lingering symptom from the defrosting process. His body temperature still didn’t self-regulate very well, and sometimes his blood pressure dropped without warning.

Gritting his teeth, Bones withdrew from the sterile field and hastily injected himself with a stimulant. He got himself stabilized before his legs turned to water and left him lying in a heap on the floor-- a good thing for his patient, who still had a bleeder. 

“Humanity’s own greatest scientists recognize the logic of genetic superiority. Mendel, Darwin, Capecchi....” Khan lounged in the doorway, watching him. “You are weak; you barely survived resuscitation. My kind will rule by genetic mandate, doctor.”

The word ‘logic’ sounded dirty somehow on Khan’s tongue. McCoy refused to respond to the bait, passing his hands under the sterilizer and returning to his work. He isolated the bleeding artery and clamped it off, then started hunting the other half of the blood vessel on the other side of the gap.

“You still need what’s in my head.” He probed carefully with a scanner, grimacing as the Klingon’s leg twitched by reflex.

“And you are a useful lever, as well.” Khan stepped forward to observe more closely. “I need you to accompany me on an errand, doctor.”

McCoy bristled, finally locating the other end of the tiny severed artery and pulling it clear of the damaged tissue so he could apply a surgical regenerator, rejoining the two pieces. He sponged the sterile field clean of purple blood and began re-attaching severed muscle fibers. “Unless you want one of your trusted operatives to lose the use of his leg, you’ll let me finish here first.”

Khan stood back to wait, folding his arms. He didn’t speak until McCoy had finished and removed his makeshift surgical gown and gloves. As McCoy patted his hands dry, Khan roused himself.

“Come on.” He led the way through a twisting maze of underground corridors. It was probably another abandoned bunker from pre-warp history, all but forgotten in the mists of time.

The blinding glow of daylight made him blink; weeks spent in the dim below-ground environment had taken their toll. The air was uncomfortably cool but very fresh, and he drew deep lungfuls as he waited for his eyes to adapt.

“I want you to see the people your modern world has left behind, doctor-- the ones Starfleet hides from the eyes of its smug, self-righteous citizens.” Khan led the way to a rickety old automobile-- one of the ground models, miraculously still running somehow. 

They lurched through a stretch of lush jungle over a rutted road with water standing in the tracks; McCoy wasn’t familiar enough with the flora and fauna to guess at their locale, but hazarding a guess based on Khan’s ethnicity, it might be India.

His guess was confirmed when they finally arrived at a village-- less of a village and more of a shanty-town, with every kind of refuse imaginable repurposed and pressed into service as building materials, furniture, cookware, or clothing. The accent was distinctly Hindustani.

McCoy sighed, gazing down at a little boy with a bloated belly and a misshapen arm. The child stood staring up at them with wide dark eyes, uncertain. 

“Dammit, Khan, we’ve at least reduced this kind of thing substantially. Not every population, not every government, agreed to be--”

“To be assimilated. To conform to Starfleet’s moral and economic code. To sacrifice their cultures for wealth and follow the approved caucasian model for admission into the happy arms of a sanitized perfect society.” Khan bared his teeth in something that might have been intended as a smile. “Even I, doctor, dare not give that child a ration packet, or we will be mobbed. Food is delivered to a central distribution center where families such as his may go to be fed three times a day.” Khan gazed around. “The garbage dumps, the refuse of old Earth-- many have yet to be reclaimed. Groups such as this one make their meager living mining landfills in the name of conservation, reclamation, and productive employment.”

He paused, fixing McCoy with a steely glare. “This is the system your advertisements would uphold, doctor-- the people your Starfleet stands on, the foundation of their achievements. These people… I would have been their champion, their leader, had I not been exiled, leaving them to grub for their lives in poverty. Their only hope lies in war-- in toppling the corrupt system from power and replacing it with one that favors _them!”_

Yes. And if people such as this was the entire following Khan had now to rely on, he was truly desperate. 

McCoy gazed around the scene of poverty and squalor. He had been aware of this small minority of Earth citizens, peripherally aware-- and acknowledged his culpability in having accepted their existence, with no more compassion to his credit than participation in a field trip or two to remote areas where the holdouts still lingered, to immunize the young ones.

“This is an old argument, Khan. It’s the result of a deliberate choice.”

“It is the only argument!” The man’s eyes flashed. “And it is a choice none of these individuals was ever given a voice in. Corrupt officials decided for their great-great-grandparents and left them to suffer. You have not walked away from Omelas, doctor. None of your civilized, compassionate humanitarians at Federation Headquarters have.”

McCoy followed perforce as Khan dismounted from the vehicle and led the way into the village. Mud sucked at his boots and spattered on his legs; he slapped at a whining insect buzzing around his head. 

“This is their hospital,” Khan said, showing him to a hut slightly larger than the others. Various people lay inside-- some with infected wounds, others fevered with blood-borne illnesses the civilized world regarded as long gone. “Help them.”

McCoy opened his meager medical kit and set to work, knowing Khan was filming him, knowing it would be used against his cause… but unable to deny the overwhelming claim simple human misery had on him: to alleviate it by any and all means at his disposal, regardless of personal cost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Khan refers to a short story called [ The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas](https://www.utilitarianism.com/nu/omelas.pdf) by Ursula K. LeGuin. At the time of publication, it could be found at https://www.utilitarianism.com/nu/omelas.pdf . However, I'm sure that if the link isn't working when you read, you can find an online copy by searching for the title.


End file.
